


Encore

by sub_textual



Series: Encore [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Music, Competitive Music, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, Illustrated Fic, M/M, Phichit is the best friend in the world, Slow Build, Viktor is a world-class musician, Yuri Plisetsky is intense, Yuuri is the biggest Viktor fanboy in the world, Yuuri struggles with anxiety, illustrations in some chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-12 17:59:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 50,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9083284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sub_textual/pseuds/sub_textual
Summary: In which Yuuri and Viktor find each other, life, and love through the competitive world of music. --   Yuuri reaches for it, grasping, fingers rising, falling, dancing across the entire keyboard in sweeping arpeggios, flying towards the sky, before crashing down to earth, dramatic, dark chords booming. Is this how Viktor felt, too? When his arpeggio soared, did he fly like Yuuri? When the counterpoint dropped, did it feel like he was breaking? Yuuri feels like he’s drowning, pushed to the bottom of the ocean. The music floods through him, torrential and unforgiving, breaking him down. It unmakes him, undoes him, and Yuuri feels it— feels everything, suddenly, all at once.Edit:  Fic unfortunately will no longer be updated, writer lost her muse. :(





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Edited by [@powerandpathos](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/powerandpathos)
> 
> **Disclaimer:** Some dialogue is lifted directly from the anime and re-used for the purpose of the narrative, and belongs to Kubo-sensei.
> 
>  
> 
> [Click to listen to Encore's OST](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLDn2XGRgVg3zg6cU-RlRCTEDnhhgaA8LW)

_“Music gives a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination and life to everything.”_ \- John Taylor

 —

 

There’s nothing quite like the roar of a crowd in the moments before it all begins.

It’s the sizzle and crack of lightning across the sky in the midst of a storm, the promise of thunder trembling just in the distance. You know what’s coming, and waiting for it is like breathing electricity, made up of a thousand voices, coalescing in a single wave that rises towards the sky. It’s dizzying, exhilarating, terrifying all at once. A little like rediscovering what it means to be alive.

The stage breathes, pulses with light, color bursting kaleidoscopic and bright, blinding in intensity. It’s hard to know where to look — at the lights that carve across the stage, leaving behind dazzling strokes of a luminous brush in the haze hanging heavy in the air, or the geometric shapes of contrasting color exploding from the video wall. The colors seem to dance with each heavy thump of bass reverberating the stomps of feet whenever the crowd rises into the air and falls.

The entire venue shakes, vibrates with a breathless intensity. 

He stands in the eye of the storm, feels the weight of one thousand voices pressing against his skin. They’re waiting, all of them, for this. For him. Impossibly, somehow, to hear him open his mouth and let his voice take flight.  It feels like a dream, hearing his name on their tongues. His name, reverberating between synthetic notes and the wail of an electric guitar.

_YUU-RI. YUU-RI. YUU-RI._

Louder and louder, a dizzying crescendo.

The lights burst open and, one by one, his dancers slide apart in a single smooth motion as the spotlight goes on, blindingly bright. For a moment, the world fades away. There’s nothing but the spotlight and Yuuri and the roar of voices crushing in all around him. 

Yuuri tries to remember how to smile. He takes a breath, steps forward into the light, and opens his mouth.

 

*

 

Yuuri slams his laptop shut with shaky hands, his breath coming out of him like a slowly deflating balloon as he rests his forehead against the desk. The surface is cool and calming against his burning cheek. He should stay here like this, he thinks, cheek to desk, not doing much of anything else. Maybe he can become one with the desk. Maybe he doesn’t have to think about the fact that he, Yuuri Katsuki, wanted a record deal so badly, that he competed in _Grand Prix Voice_ and, in the finals, ended up failing spectacularly.   

He didn’t even manage to make the top three, voted off the show in sixth place disgrace. His final performance: a travesty. He wishes he could forget it. Wishes he had the power to undo it, so that it never happened.

In front of a celebrity panel of judges in a packed house televised to thirty million people, he somehow managed to forget lyrics and sang all his high notes flat, like there were fingers around his throat, and with every breath he took and every note he sung, the grip grew tighter until it was unbearable.

His performance was so stunningly terrible that his manager had thought that his in-ear monitors had gone out. From his place on stage, he could see Celestino rushing towards the monitor engineer, arms waving wildly. Screaming over the intercom, hand pushing the mouthpiece towards his face, as though the proximity of the microphone to his shouting mouth would be enough to fix every mistake Yuuri was making.

Yuuri’s in ears worked just fine. He could hear his music, he could hear himself, but most of all, he could hear his voice echoing in his ears, brash and loud and terrible.

If only it were the in ears, he could have asked to restart due to a technical failure. He could have taken it from the top. But he stepped out on the stage and the spotlight went on, and all Yuuri could think about wasn’t his music at all, or the fact that there were at least twenty A&R agents in the room, but the roar just beyond, a relentless tidal wave slamming him down into a riptide that effortlessly, devastatingly, stole his breath away and locked up his vocal chords.

When he opened his mouth, what came out wasn’t his voice, but something strained and fraught with tension, tremulous in all the wrong ways.

As if he needed to sabotage his own performance even more, he began making mistakes in his choreography, stepping out when all of his dancers stepped in. Spinning too early. Missing every single cue, like he had forgotten how his feet should move or where to place his arms or hips or how to gyrate to the downbeats in a way that wasn’t completely, utterly awkward. He was supposed to exude confidence and sensuality, possessing the grace of a jaguar moving through the forest at night. Instead, he had about as much grace as a dying fish gasping for its last breath, mouth opening and closing soundlessly.

The look Celestino gave him as he walked off stage after the vote is something he will never forget.  

The disappointment was a shuddering, sinking weight falling to the bottom of him.

“What happened, Yuuri?” Celestino asked, his voice carefully reined in, but Yuuri could hear the horror at the edges just the same.

 I happened, Yuuri wanted to say. _I should have known better than to think I could win._

 “I’m sorry,” was all he managed to say in the end. The unblinking eye of the spotlight, as it followed his walk of shame off the stage, left a sensation like burning in his eyes.

Or, maybe, that was just the tears.

 

*

 

Haselton in winter is a quiet, brooding thing.

A small, sleepy town tucked along the Narragansett Bay, few things happen here in the dead of winter, when the snow drifts sometimes grow as high as rooftops, and the white of waves are more ice than ocean froth. During the summer, Haselton finds itself overrun with tourists, who seem determined to claim every corner of the town as their own. Vacationers air out their summer homes along the shore, trading skyscrapers and humid subways for sky and sand and blue, blue water. They stroll along the small cobblestone streets of the town center, chewing on salt taffy and licking melting ice cream cones. The din of their voices is loud and incessant and reaches even the edge of town, where Yuuri lives in a small, white clapboard house with his parents and his sister, that they operate as a bed and breakfast with its own Japanese-style restaurant.

They live a quiet life, the four of them, in their small town where nothing ever happens in winter, and where no one recognizes him when he walks down Main Street to his part-time job at Castille de Glace, the only five star hotel in town. Yuuri had gotten the job when he was only sixteen, after Tom Bachmann, the owner of the hotel, happened by chance to hear him play.

“How would you like a job, kid?” Tom had asked, his face rough like leather, tanned from the sun, even though the white that swirled on the ground outside was more snow than sand. His teeth were a startling white against his bronze complexion. “You got real talent. We could use a piano player like you in the hotel lobby.”

Yuuri stared at him like the sun had dropped out of the sky and fell into Tom’s hands. His jaw fell slack, eyes so wide they hurt.  It was a little like the feeling he had when the board of judges informed him that he had won his first piano competition. At eight years old, the idea of winning seemed an impossible thing.

This was only a small part-time job, playing piano in a hotel lobby, for guests who barely listened. But for Yuuri, it was his future. A small glimpse of the dream he only barely grasped a number of times, in the quiet applause at piano recitals and competitions, and in the breathless, brilliant smile Viktor Nikiforov flashed from a stage far larger and higher than any Yuuri had ever stepped foot on.

The piano in a hotel lobby could maybe, one day, lead to the piano at the Boston Blue Note, where Viktor had played a mesmerizing show at the tender age of fourteen, despite not nearly being old enough to enter through the front door as a patron. That was where he had been discovered by Yakov Feltsman, who saw in Viktor something far greater than jazz clubs and Carnegie Hall, where Viktor often performed classical concertos with full orchestras. He saw platinum records; he saw arenas. He saw the world cradled in the palm of Viktor’s hand. And he saw himself, guiding him.  

Within a year, Viktor Nikiforov had effortlessly risen from dominating classical and jazz competition circuits to dominating Billboard and music charts around the world. He won five Grammys for his debut album, swept the awards season, and his concerts grew from small clubs to large theaters that held thousands of people. Yuuri had watched his star rise, staying up far too late on school nights on the family computer, watching grainy bootleg videos of Viktor’s music videos and live performances, over and over again.  He sat close to the screen, breath catching in his throat, every time Viktor’s fingers did something he didn’t expect. Surprise washed over him endlessly, as though Viktor knew that he was listening and wanted to catch him off guard with an unexpected melody, or an artful turn of phrase. He wanted to absorb every beat of Viktor’s music, his performance, his very essence, into the molecules of his being.   

He bought every single, every album, the day that it came out, and listened to every second of it with his childhood best friend, Yuuko. They would pop the CD into the old, dusty stereo system in the Katsuki living room and listen to Viktor’s music together, his voice as clear as a warm spring day cutting through the still of a New England winter. The music swelled, and Viktor’s voice climbed with it, so high, it threatened the stars, and twelve-year-old Yuuri thought to himself, this must be what love feels like.

The day is bitingly cold, the kind that goes down to the bones. It’s the kind of cold everyone wants to look out at with cups of steaming hot chocolate pressed between two hands; a startling difference from the dry heat of Los Angeles Yuuri had run away from three months ago. Christmas and the New Year had come and gone, and Yuuri had barely noticed, spending most of his time locked up in his room, cheek to desk, contemplating whether he should take down Viktor’s posters, which had once served as a source of inspiration and focus, but now felt like an ever-present reminder of his defeat. The rest of the time, he spent at his parents’ restaurant, eating bowl after bowl of katsudon drenched in tonkatsu sauce to fill up the empty space music had once filled in his life.

“It’ll be okay, Yuuri. You did your best,” his mother had said, when he came home from Los Angeles. He sees in her eyes the same thing he saw when he left: hope, that perhaps her son had finally come to his senses about his frivolous dream in music, and will finally settle down like Mari, to help her run the family business.

Eventually Yuuri returned to his old job at Castille de Glace — a legitimate excuse to not work at Yu-topia Katsuki Restaurant and Inn.

He can barely even remember a before, anymore. What it felt like, when he thought he could touch the sky. When the stars themselves didn’t seem so far away, and the possibility of one day sharing a stage with Viktor Nikiforov seemed more a question of when than how. Now, all he has is this: an empty hotel lobby, an old piano with a creaky bench, music that is not his own.

The wind outside scrapes across the windows. It is mournful, and it sounds like loss. 

Yuuri is thankful that the cold somehow chased away everyone’s memory of him on television. He’d rather be forgotten than remembered for what happened that day, when he flew too close to the sun.

 

*

 

As much as Yuuri had wanted to hide from the world, and everyone he had ever known, it was only a matter of time before he was discovered. It happens rather unexpectedly on a Tuesday, at the grocery store, somewhere between the onions and potatoes. He had been selecting a few onions for dinner, when suddenly, a pair of arms circled in around his shoulders, a slight, soft frame pressing flush against his back.

Startled, Yuuri drops the onions, just as an all-too-familiar voice excitedly exclaims into his left ear, “Yuuuuuri!”

Yuuri winces, and somehow manages to glance over his shoulder, to discover his former piano teacher, Minako, hanging over his back. The cold has made her cheeks ruddy and red, her smile wide and bright. His own is mild, when he remembers to smile, and manages to stumble out, in Japanese, “A-ah! Mi-Minako-sensei. It’s been a while.”   

Minako’s arms slip back from around his shoulders, and Yuuri tries not to show his relief when she peels herself from his back. He watches as she props one hand on her hip. “I _heard_ you had come home,” she says, “but I couldn’t believe it. I thought to myself, _surely_ he would have come by to say hello if he really was here.” Her look turns sly. “But here you are, and it seems I didn’t even get a visit!”

Yuuri hates confrontations. It’s why he spent most of his days since his return trying to fade into relative obscurity, so that he wouldn’t have to swallow down the looks everyone would certainly give him. He still carries Celestino’s within him, anchored deep in the mud of three months ago. “I’m sorry,” he says, his head hanging low. “I haven’t really had much of a chance to visit anyone.”

“When did you get back?” Minako asks, very expectantly, and Yuuri feels the floor drop out under his feet. It’s not all unlike the way he felt on stage, the unblinking eye of the spotlight watching him too closely.

“Um…” Yuuri says, as he tries to find an easy exit out of the truth. But he can’t simply depart stage left and leave Minako standing all alone in the middle of the onions and potatoes. Nor can he lie about how long it’s been, even if that would be the easiest path out of this. It’s a little like standing on train tracks, a freight train hurtling right at him, and Yuuri can’t even move a single muscle in his body to stop the inevitable.  Minako’s eyes are too bright.  Yuuri has to look away. He focuses on the onions, gathering up the ones he had dropped when she hugged him. “...back in December.” 

Yuuri doesn’t have to look at Minako to know the shock in her eyes, the smile on her face fading like the last rays of the sun. He braces himself when she finally finds her voice. “Three months?!” Apparently, Minako’s outrage needed to be accompanied by a well-placed smack to Yuuri’s right shoulder.  He makes a show of rubbing it. “You’ve been back all this time, and not even a word?”

Maybe he should have lied to her, after all, he thinks. If he had only done that, she wouldn’t be so angry at him, hurt that he’d been here all along, and apparently, didn’t want to see her. _It’s not true,_ he wants to tell her. _I just don’t know how to stand before you anymore. I don’t know if I even can._ She had been there for as long as he could remember, teaching him, encouraging him, believing in him when almost no one else did. For years, it had just been Minako, Yuuko, and his sister. The warmth of their cheers and their encouragement carried him through competitions, recitals, and eventually, to the _Grand Prix Voice._  

He never even would have had the courage to make the leap from classical to pop, or graduated college with a degree in music, had it not been for Minako’s steady reassurance that if Viktor Nikiforov could do it, so could he. 

How was he supposed to face her? He had left Haselton five years ago, confident that when he returned, it would be with a record deal. Even if he didn’t win the competition, he should have at least come home with something to show for his effort. But, all he has is the heaviness he carries within his chest, which has sunken into his flesh, his waistline soft and expanded, clothes fitting him far too tightly.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, not knowing what to say, or the expression he must carry on his face, because Minako’s arm suddenly is slinging around his neck again, and it feels like forgiveness he hasn’t earned. “Well, I suppose it’s no big deal,” she says warmly. “What’s another three months, when you’ve been gone for five years?” Minako’s laughter is a bright, wondrous thing in his ears, but it makes the ache inside of him that much worse. Her look suddenly turns conspiratorial. “Yuuri, you owe me many, many drinks. I hope you brought your wallet, because it’s gonna be your treat~!”

They end up at at Rousseau’s, Minako’s favorite sports bar down the street. Yuuri suspects Minako’s fondness for Rousseau’s has something to do with the fact that the bartenders let her watch figure skating on television screens usually reserved for football.  

“Ah~h. Can you imagine yourself ever doing that?” Minako asks over a draft lager and a huge plate of chips, and Yuuri follows her gaze  to the television screen to watch as the skater effortlessly leaps into the air, his body tight and spinning beautifully in flight before he lands on one foot, arms outstretched in a glide. 

“I’d probably look pretty silly, if I tried,” Yuuri says. He can’t imagine ever being coordinated enough to do anything quite as difficult as ice skating, when he couldn’t even remember how to dance on stage. He remembers the way his legs and arms felt, like appendages that were outside of himself, when he stood on a surface made of wood and black paint. On ice, he could only imagine the way he would look, stumbling, limbs akimbo. The fall would hurt, bruising soft skin.

Minako hasn’t mentioned  _Grand Prix Voice_ yet, and Yuuri nervously drinks half his beer before he even realizes how light the glass is. If she’s still angry at him, Yuuri can’t tell anymore, because she has a misty look in her eyes as she watches the skater dance across the ice, her delicate chin propped in her hand. There’s a faint smile on her face, like she knows a secret he doesn’t.

“I don’t know, Yuuri,” Minako finally says. “I think you’d make a pretty great skater, if that was what you wanted.” Her eyes are twinkling, and Yuuri has a feeling that he knows what she’s about to say next. He grips his glass a little harder. “You can do anything you set your mind out to do, as long as you work hard and don’t give up, even if you don’t always succeed the first time.”

But that’s just the thing—Yuuri doesn’t know if he wants to work hard anymore. He’s tired in a way he’s never been, the rust of exhaustion heavy on his bones, dragging all the muscles of his body down in one place. He can barely get himself up out of bed to walk the ten minutes to Castille de Glace, so that he can move his fingers in some semblance of a performance, let alone think about _working hard._

He’s spent his entire life working hard, chasing after Viktor Nikiforov’s shadow, but all that hard work didn’t amount to much, when he was standing up on that stage alone. 

“I don’t think I’m going to give it another shot, Minako-sensei,” Yuuri quietly admits after a moment, staring at the bottom of his glass. “Maybe… maybe I found my limit. Not everyone’s cut out for the big leagues. Besides, I’m getting too old…”

“Too old?” Minako half-scoffs, half-laughs. “Yuuri, you’re only twenty-three. Viktor Nikiforov was the same age when he won his first _Grand Prix Elite_ —”

“I’m not Viktor, okay?!”

The words unleashed, Yuuri’s gaze snaps up from his glass to Minako’s face. He flinches at the tightness around her eyes. She must have been taken aback by the way his voice had sounded in that moment — the loud bitterness of it, cutting something sharp out of round syllables. “I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just… Viktor had a record deal when he was fourteen, and by the time he felt like competing, he already had more Grammys under his belt than most people have in a lifetime.” Yuuri had classical competitions, a YouTube channel no one knows about, and a Soundcloud filled with music no one has ever heard, other than the handful of people in his life who ever seemed to think he could be more than what he is.

“I’m not Viktor,” he says again, his voice soft and full of defeat, as he eyes the last of his beer. 

“No, you’re not Viktor,” Minako finally agrees after a moment. “You’re Katsuki Yuuri. You’re the hardest, most talented musician I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. And you know what’s great about you, Yuuri?”

 _Nothing_ , he thinks. Absolutely nothing.

“You never give up,” Minako says, her tone a declaration. Yuuri doesn’t know how she can have so much faith in someone like him.

 

*

 

Sometimes, Yuuri wonders if everyone else knows him better than he knows himself.

He had been so sure, when he had come back to Haselton, that he would never feel the urge to return to music fully. He felt washed up, washed out, done. At twenty-three years old, he had squeezed every ounce of hope and love for music out of his blood, and all that he had left was a shell of himself. He was all fingers, but no voice and no heart. Fingers that moved without thought or direction, forming sound he heard, but didn’t feel anymore.

Eventually, Yuuri gets tired of playing music that only moves his fingers, but not the rest of him.

He finds himself missing it, the feeling that used to fill him when he performed. The bright, shivery thing in his chest that felt like flying, like he could jump off the highest precipice and rise with the currents. In the moments between putting his fingers to the keys and opening his mouth to sing that feeling aloud, he felt more alive than in any other moment. He could do anything, be anyone, even stand on the same stage as Viktor Nikiforov. The possibilities were limitless, and hope sprung eternal.

Though Yuuri doesn’t know if he can ever quite capture that feeling again, he misses feeling the music. Letting it fill him so completely until there was nothing else but the music inside of him, and the cool feeling of keys beneath his fingertips. Winter would sit outside of him, somewhere where the cold could never reach. Inside, he would be warm, surrounded by the security of song, and only concerned with perfecting the next arpeggio or note sequence. Practicing even the most difficult pieces until his fingers and wrists ached, and his shoulders and back felt stiff and tight with the exertion of being hunched over a piano for so many long, unforgiving hours.

You never give up, Minako had said, and apparently, she was right, because Yuuri finds himself wanting. And the thing about want is that it’s dangerous, the way it so quietly slips inside you when you least expect it. Yuuri had closed himself up, determined to never want to feel music again in his life, but here he is, three months later, wanting.

He ends up at Haselton Music Center, where he and Yuuko had spent hours as children, playing Viktor’s songs together on the shop’s pianos. Since Yuuri’s parents couldn’t afford a real piano for him to practice on when he was young, Yuuri spent hours in the store. He practiced piano anywhere he could — in the back room of the record shop, surrounded by old records; in the music room of his elementary school; and in Haselton Music Center, which held some of his most treasured memories.

The shop staff were always very kind to him, and allowed him to practice for hours, even though they knew that someone so young certainly couldn’t afford a piano of his own.  

The door chimes with bells when he pushes it open. It’s late, past closing, but he can see Yuuko standing at the counter, counting out the day’s register. 

“Sorry, we’re closing!” Yuuko calls over to him as she fusses with the stack of bills in her hands. Even from where he stands in the doorway, some twenty feet away, he can make out the way she worries her lower lip between her teeth, the way she does when she’s trying to concentrate. It used to make him blush, watching that innocent gesture.

“Excuse me... ” Yuuri says, with a hesitant smile, as he walks up to the counter. 

Yuuko continues to count the bills. “I’m sorry, but—” Yuuri watches as she freezes. The surprise in her eyes when she looks up at him feels like dawn rising through the clouds on a grey day. “Yuuri-kun!” she exclaims. The delight in her smile is warm and familiar and feels like home. “It’s been so long!”

“It’s nice to see you, Yuuko-san,” Yuuri says politely, the smile on his face soft and easy.

“ _Yuuko-san_?” She sounds almost offended. “Call me Yuu-chan!”   

“Ah, sorry!” Yuuri says sheepishly. It’d been so long since he’d seen her in person that he wasn’t sure if he could take liberties. Even though they’d kept in touch via Facebook and email, somehow, being face-to-face with her now after so many years feels different. Their edges don’t fit quite as perfectly as they once did. Yuuri isn’t quite the same person he was when he left for college.

“You came to play, right?” Yuuko asks, and Yuuri can hear the barely-contained edge of excitement in her voice. “Go right ahead.”

Yuuri blinks at her. “Eh? Really? Are you sure?”

“You want to practice alone, right?” she asks easily.   

Yuuko has always understood him far too well. She seemed to always know what he was thinking or feeling, even before he did, as though she could see inside his mind and make sense of the tangle.  

Yuuri’s smile is shy and uncertain. “If it isn’t too much trouble…”

Yuuko waves a hand. “No trouble at all! After all, how often do I get my own private concert?” Yuuko’s easy smile settles in him, steadies him. He feels, suddenly, like he can breathe again. He feels like he could make something worth listening to. Rediscover a part of himself that had been lost, which he didn’t know he had been looking for.  

His eyes travel to the mahogany Steinway sitting on a raised ledge in the center of the showroom. All these years, and still, no one has purchased his favorite piano in the collection. Yuuri can barely believe his dumb luck, as he closes the distance between himself and the instrument.

The smell of wood polish fills his nose, a familiar, comforting scent that reminds him of rainy afternoons after school spent playing in the showroom, the rhythm of the sky the metronome for his music. Rarely, did he ever find enough courage to play the Steinway, a remarkable work of art crafted in the twenties, that had passed from showrooms to smoky jazz clubs to the creaky wood floors of six-floor walk-ups in Harlem. Back then, the city was wild, bursting with music and color and jazz. Yuuri couldn’t imagine what it must’ve been like to be a musician in a world split in half.

The provenance of the piano is what has made it so difficult to sell; its asking price is worth several times what most people make in a single year. Though it’d passed through many owners, and had been refinished countless times, the Steinway was, at one point in the forties, owned briefly by Thelonius Monk. The thought that one of the best jazz pianists of all time not only touched the instrument, and played upon it, but had also _owned_ it, was always enough to send Yuuri into a quiet, awed shock. He would stare at the piano from the floor of the showroom, scared to touch it, lest he somehow ruin whatever magic it possessed. He was certain there was magic in the grain of the wood, something that he could not access.

Monk had owned the Steinway, played on it. The warm wood knew the salt of his sweat as well as it knew the way he attacked the keys, melodic twists and turns stroking against the strings which he made sing.

Yuuri wouldn’t even have known who Thelonius Monk was, or anything about jazz, if it wasn’t for the fact that Viktor had performed one of his pieces early in his career. Viktor was always eager to surprise his audience; instead of Rachmaninov, he chose to play “Round Midnight” as his encore for the classical concert he had just performed. It was as shocking as it was unheard of — for a classical musician to spring the wildness of jazz onto an unsuspecting audience. The song was a dissonant, confusing thing that broke all of the rules Yuuri had become so accustomed to in the rigid world of classical music. It was almost like the first time Yuuri heard Viktor play a Bartok concerto, but even then, he was able to find some sort of structure in the madness of it all.

This was different. The notes were wild and clashing, moving and dancing and free and breathing, and at ten years old, Yuuri could not understand how it worked. But then, the _rat-tat-tat_ of the snare drum started tapping in past the sixth measure, and the low, brassy notes of a saxophone began to sing. _Bum-bum-bum_ went the upright bass a moment later, and Yuuri suddenly discovered that music was a thing that was _alive_. It lived and breathed just like him, and it was wonderfully surprising and strange, and his shock was as much awe as it was delight.

Yuuri can count the number of times he’d dared to play the Steinway on one hand. The first time, he had just won his first all-state competition. High on the rush of winning, with a gold medal hanging around his neck, the weight of it so very real and unbelievable all at the same time, Yuuri had come to the shop with Yuuko to celebrate. They were going to tinker on the pianos, play some tunes together, and then go to the record shop to listen to Viktor’s first record on pressed vinyl.

Somehow, Yuuko and the shop’s employees managed to convince him that he was good enough to play the Steinway — he’d just won the all-state classical piano competition! At eleven years old! Yuuri’s head spun with the flattery; he didn’t know where to put it, how to hold it properly, how to appropriately react. He thanked everyone for their kindness, but was that enough? It was overwhelming. He suddenly found himself pushed up onto the platform, the Steinway looming impossibly high before him like a mountain he didn’t know how to climb. The keys were thrust under his fingers—play something for us, Yuuri!—and he stared at them like he didn’t know what they were.

They all expected that Yuuri would play Chopin’s _Piano Concerto in E Minor,_ the piece that had won him the competition.

Instead, Yuuri played Viktor’s very first single, which had only just been released. Music, suddenly, had settled in him with some understanding he had only then discovered.

Later that afternoon, in the back room of the record store, with hundreds of legendary records crammed in all around him, Yuuri sang Viktor’s song for Yuuko. He had wanted to teach her the song, so that they could sing it together. It was something of Viktor’s, and they had spent so many years trying to copy Viktor’s playing style that it felt only natural for them to share this, too.

But Yuuri had never had a reason to sing before. It was the first time Yuuko’d ever heard him make music with something other than his fingers. You have an amazing voice, she said, and Yuuri couldn’t believe she liked what she heard. But he liked what he became, when he sang Viktor’s music and felt it under his fingers and deep in his lungs. It was like tiny a part of Viktor’s vast universe had finally found its way inside of Yuuri. He could feel the wide-open expanse of space and all of its possibilities. Stars burst into life within him, exploding breathlessly like the music at the tips of his fingers and the tip of his tongue.

Yuuri reverently lets his palm glide over the curved lid that covers the Steinway’s ivory keys. The wood is firm and cool under his touch, and gives him focus. Maybe, with Yuuko watching him, he might be able to recover what he had lost on stage three months ago.

Yuuko stands on the floor of the showroom, her eyes gleaming bright as she looks up at him with a faint smile on her face. It’s the same expression she used to wear when they crowded together on the bench in the record shop, and Yuuri feels his face heat slightly at the memory.

 “I wanted you to hear this,” he admits, as his left hand finds its way into position. “I’ve been practicing it for a while.”  

He doesn’t know if he can recapture the stars, draw them out of their orbits, to pull back into himself. The sky seems so far away now. Even Viktor, whose music and performance he had always held so close to him, feels untouchable.

 Yuuri closes his eyes and takes a breath as his right hand settles on the keys. Viktor had performed this song on the last _Grand Prix Elite_ , winning his fifth consecutive championship. It had taken everyone by surprise, that Viktor Nikiforov would eschew the shock and awe of his previous stages. Gone were the twenty-foot-high video wall and multi-level stage; the carbon dioxide cannons and pyrotechnics; the dancers and the live band; lasers and lights; and fly systems that flew Viktor high above the crowd. The _spectacle_ of it all had been stripped away, ground down to just a single grand piano and a solemn spotlight.

It felt like everything Viktor Nikiforov was, bared open. The truth of his soul, split apart for everyone to see on stage. It was everything that Yuuri had wanted to be, and everything that he wasn’t and didn’t know how to be.

Yuuri knows every beat of this performance. He’d watched it a hundred times, listened to nothing but it for hours, days. Viktor was unbridled grace and power, head bowed elegantly over the keys, fingers perfectly poised. Each rise and fall of his arm pushed the music out of him, into the keys, and through the piano. He did not make music; he became it. His voice possessed a haunting quality to it, and Yuuri wondered how someone like Viktor could have ever known pain in his life. That he could sing such loss with such honesty. That anyone would not want to stay close to him, to stay by his side.

There was a rawness to his voice, the same rawness that tears out of Yuuri when he opens his mouth to sing the first verse. He feels, suddenly, stripped open. Like the music had reached into him and ripped out a part of him he didn’t know was still there. He doesn’t quite know the desperation of wanting to hold onto someone, hasn’t yet experienced the words coming out of his mouth, but he knows what it feels like to be desperate. And he knows the fear of loss. The awfulness of it, how it cleaves you apart.

How could someone like Viktor, who is golden and bright and so very perfect that just looking at him makes Yuuri’s eyes hurt sometimes — how could someone like that ever know such an awful feeling? And how could he sing it aloud for the whole world to hear, sing aloud his fear and his desperation, reveal this vulnerable part of him — something Yuuri didn’t even know Viktor possessed, or could be — and still have any hope left within him?

Yuuri reaches for it, grasping, fingers rising, falling, dancing across the entire keyboard in sweeping arpeggios, flying towards the sky, before crashing down to earth, dramatic, dark chords booming. Is this how Viktor felt, too? When his arpeggio soared, did he fly like Yuuri? When the counterpoint dropped, did it feel like he was breaking? Yuuri feels like he’s drowning, pushed to the bottom of the ocean. The music floods through him, torrential and unforgiving, breaking him down. It unmakes him, undoes him, and Yuuri feels it— feels everything, suddenly, all at once.

He might not understand it, what it means to love someone, like how Viktor sings in this song. But Yuuri knows what it’s like to love a thing so much, to want so desperately to hold onto it, with both hands; he knows the fear of losing it, the way it nearly destroyed him, how he almost let it. And he knows hope, hope like he hasn’t known or felt in months. And he feels clean and reborn and when he opens his mouth again to sing the last verse, he almost believes the hope in his mouth: _Now I’m ready_.

 

*

 

Yuuri comes back to himself slowly.

His eyes are watery, the world a watercolor blur around him. He can hear a terrible trembling, an incessant snapping, like he’s standing on the faultlines of the earth, and it’s breaking apart beneath him. He realizes a moment later: it’s the sound of his heart, beating wildly in his chest, syncopated by the percussion of hands in wild applause.

A shriek rings out a moment later, and Yuuri startles in his seat, head swirling to find Yuuko jumping up and down. “That was so cool! Oh my god! That was a perfect cover of Viktor Nikiforov! I didn’t know you could still do that! I thought you’d be depressed or something, but look at you go!”

“I was,” Yuuri admits out loud for the first time. “But I got bored of being depressed all the time, so I started thinking… that I wanted to get my love for music back. I thought I could remember how it was, when I covered Viktor with you.”

Yuuko’s expression softens into something like understanding, and Yuuri wants to tell her how grateful he is, and has always been, for her friendship and support. How much he couldn’t do this without her. But just as he’s about to open his mouth, something warm and wiggly presses up against his legs, and Yuuri jerks back. He nearly falls off the back of the bench, arms flailing wildly before he manages to catch himself, a chorus of giggles emerging from underneath the piano.

Three tiny faces pop up from under the keyboard. One of the girls has her hands on his knees, and Yuuri realizes he can’t tell any of them apart at all. Had they been there the entire time?  He hadn’t even realized anyone else was in the shop other than Yuuko.

At least they seemed to enjoy the performance as much as their mother, even if they’re little brats who ask invasive questions Yuuri never knows how to answer.

 

*

 

The ringing wakes him.

It’s well past midnight, and Yuuri had been in bed, dreaming about a katsudon mountain. He would’ve very happily continued to go on dreaming of conquering that mountain, if it hadn’t been for the incessant ringing of his phone. He squints a bleary eye open, and rolls onto his side to paw blindly at the offensive ringing. The face of his digital clock reads 1:04, and the screen of his phone reads _Phichit Chulanont._

Phichit. Yuuri hadn’t really heard from him, other than through text message, since he left Los Angeles. He’d met Phichit through Celestino, who had signed the Thai singer for his American debut. Unlike Yuuri, who wasn’t much of anyone in the United States, Phichit was already a relatively well-known artist in Thailand. He had a record label that backed him locally, and distribution through Sony BMG. But in the United States, he was about as well-known as Yuuri. 

Yuuri feels a flash of concern as he lifts the phone to his ear. Why would Phichit call him so late at night?

“Hello? Phichit?” 

“Yuuri! Finally! You picked up!” Phichit’s voice sounds edged with urgency, almost desperate. Like he’d been trying to reach Yuuri for some time. 

“Is everything okay?” Yuuri asks, cautiously. 

“Is everything okay? _Is everything okay?!_ ” Phichit repeats it, his voice high and strung and far too excited. “Yuuri! I saw your performance!” 

His performance? Yuuri can’t imagine Phichit is talking about the trainwreck that was _Grand Prix Voice._

“What performance? What are you—” 

“Your ‘Stay Close to Me’ cover! Yuuri! It’s _everywhere_!”  

Everything inside of Yuuri stops. He must have heard that wrong, he thinks. Or maybe he’s still dreaming. It’s impossible. Yuuko was his only audience. And it wasn’t even like she was recording. Yuuri had seen her hands; there wasn’t a phone gripped in either of them. She had clapped without any obstruction. She had—

“Oh no.” Yuuri’s voice is a strained whisper, and distantly, he can hear Phichit’s bright voice ringing in his ear, and there are words forming, something about how impressed he is with Yuuri, how he can’t believe Yuuri could do something like that, how it was like watching Viktor. Doesn’t Yuuri know that the video has gone viral? It’s everywhere, all over YouTube and Facebook and Twitter. Everyone’s talking about it, the whole world knows. Everyone saw. The words tumble into one another, a stream of incoherent sound Yuuri can no longer make any sense of, because all he can feel is the horror inside of him, yawning wide. 

The triplets must have done it. When he was so wrapped up in the music, lost inside himself, they had stood there and recorded him, and he hadn’t known. They must have uploaded the video to YouTube without telling their mother, because Yuuko, _Yuuko_ would never let something like this occur. 

There’s a distant pinging in his ear, text messages flooding in between Phichit’s words, and Yuuri pulls his phone away from his ear to stare at the screen.

He has 102 missed text messages.

Yuuri suddenly wishes the ground could open beneath him and swallow him whole.

He never had meant for his performance to be shown to the world. 

It was something vulnerable, and private, and probably riddled with mistakes he hadn’t noticed because he was too caught up in the feeling of it all. And now, apparently, it has been put on display, without his consent, in front of the entire world. 

“Oh god, Phichit,” Yuuri says, his voice stricken with what he feels coiling up inside of him. “What if Viktor sees it?”

Phichit suddenly goes very quiet.  

And then he says, “Yuuri, I think he probably already has.”

 

*

 

Moscow in winter is a lively, vibrant thing.    

Color explodes off every surface, the entire city bejeweled in light and romance. Couples hold hands as they skate lazy figure eights on ice, surrounded by falling snow. The cold settles upon every surface, breath turning to frost in the air, but a little chill never hurt anyone. Not when there are steaming cups of spiced cider to hold; hot, flaky pirozhki to fill up a hungry belly; and vodka to make the blood warm.

There is also this: a young man with eyes as dark as a storm at night, and a voice like honey poured over a sunrise. 

Even through the shitty speakers of an iPhone, the richness of his voice is startling and warm. The skill with which his fingers create music and tease out even the most difficult runs and arpeggios is stunning, enthralling. But it’s the rawness of it, the breathless intensity with which he performs, a familiar head bowed over the keyboard, that Viktor Nikiforov can’t seem to look away from.

He had received a text in the morning:

**_OMG look at this 6th place LOSER tryin 2 be u, its so funny haha. #majorfail_ **

Yuri Plisetsky, ever the eloquent one.

(Viktor is always endlessly impressed by the breadth of his vocabulary.)

There was a video attached to the text, but Viktor had a full day of shooting a commercial. He had almost forgotten about it entirely, until his publicist, Julia, called him to inform him that he was trending back home in the states, and had he seen the video yet?

No, not yet, Viktor had said.

Whatever you’re doing, stop right now. You have to watch this video, she said, and so he did.

It was the best decision he had made in years.

The second: buying a plane ticket.

 

*

 

Maybe if Yuuri stays in his room long enough, he will succeed in his goal of becoming one with his desk, and everyone will eventually forget about the existence of the damn video. 

He can’t imagine what Viktor must think about it. By now, he would have seen it.

Yuuri didn’t want to believe Phichit when he said that _everyone_ had seen the video and was talking about it. Surely, he was being hyperbolic. There was no way it could be true. Yuuri didn’t want to believe it. He had laid himself bare for the whole world, the secret, most shameful part of him laid fresh to be judged and ridiculed. He couldn’t bring himself to open up his social media feeds to verify Phichit’s claim, but the ever-growing mountain of text messages was telling. The way the press hounded his family to ask him for a soundbyte, even more so. A local news crew had even shown up at their door, and Mari had lied between her teeth and told them he’d gone to visit family in Hasetsu, Japan. They were welcome to try him there.  

The barrage was overwhelming. Yuuri had to call out of work, turn his phone off completely, and lock himself in his room.

That was two days ago.

He doesn’t want to know what everyone is saying, the terrible things they must think.

It would be just like what happened after the _Grand Prix Voice_ finale. Yuuri never knew words on a screen could cut so deep.

Minako tried, at one point, to drag him, bodily, out of his room, and failed. Yuuri didn’t want to hear her encouragement, all the nice things she had to say about his performance.

He didn’t want to talk to anyone about it. He’d much rather forget it ever happened, pretend like it never did.

He can imagine what everyone must be saying, can see it when he closes his eyes:

**_Sounds like shit, what a rip off. Terrible cover._ **

**_I want the last 5 minutes of my life back._ **

**_Bro must have a serious boner for viktor, look at his face LOLOLOLOL_ **

Phichit had said _everyone is talking about it_ , but he certainly didn’t say _everyone loves it_ , just that _he_ did. But then, Yuuri could probably record himself screeching like Phichit’s pet hamsters, and he would be completely delighted.   

Viktor probably despises him.

There was an interview, not too long ago. Viktor had been asked his thoughts about reality television. The look Viktor had given the camera was derision disguised in a blinding smile. “Well,” said Viktor, his voice saccharine, “I don’t really watch reality shows! I can’t say it’s a very good use of my time, to spend forty-five minutes watching a show about someone whose only talent is pretending that they’re something they’re not. I wouldn’t say that’s particularly inspiring, would you?”

Yuuri fit that a little too well. Viktor must think that this whole thing was engineered, that Yuuri had planned for it to happen. That Yuuri knew the kind of impact it would have. By leveraging Viktor’s success, Viktor’s music, Viktor’s own _performance_ , Yuuri had, overnight, become the talk of the town, the name that was in everyone’s mouths. And even if that talk might not be particularly kind, his name had trended for the better half of an entire day alongside Viktor’s in the most damning way.

Yuuri closes his eyes and curls into himself on his bed, and he sees Viktor, and he sees himself, and he sees the possibility of ever standing together on the same stage with him dashed against the rocks. He sees the pieces of the dream he had tried to put his hands around, by falling into the sky of Viktor’s song. And he sees the awful truth of what he’s done, the way he’d bastardized the only thing in his life he’d ever held truly sacred.

He sees the ground, hurtling up to meet him.  

This time, he thinks, he’ll let it finally happen.

 

*

 

“Yuuri! How long are you gonna stay in bed, feeling sorry for yourself, huh? Oi, you can’t just stay in your room all day.” Mari has always had a way of talking that somehow manages to bang down even the thickest, most sturdiest doors.

“Ah, Mari-neechan…” Yuuri mumbles into his pillow, determined to become one with his bed, since his attempt at doing the same with his desk had failed. “Do you have to be so loud?”

 “If you can’t be bothered to do something useful with your life, you might as well help out with the restaurant.” Yuuri winces at the shrillness of Mari’s voice, at the smell of tobacco curling under his door. “We’re short handed today, because of the snow. Tatsuya’s stuck in Newport. Come out and help us.”

Yuuri can feel the way Mari anticipates his acquiescence, hearing the way the floorboards creak under her feet when she shifts towards his door. She’s probably dropping ash everywhere. If she comes in his room, with that cigarette, his room is going to reek of sour smoke for hours. 

“Okay,” Yuuri concedes after a drawn-out moment. “I’ll come out in a bit.” 

“Don’t take too long,” Mari says, and Yuuri thinks he can almost hear approval in her voice.

Overnight, the sky had opened and left behind a snowfall two feet high and powder soft. The world outside is dazzling and white, sunlight gleaming off unbroken surfaces as far as the eye can see. It’s quiet, a hush that falls only with the deepest of snows that weighs down even the thickest of branches.

From his window, Yuuri can see his father shoveling snow from the front walkway, and flushes with shame when he realizes that he hadn’t been asked to help. That no one, not even Mari, told him that the walkway needed shoveling; apparently, none of the hospitality staff had taken the task upon themselves. 

Yuuri gets dressed quickly, making sure to wrap the lower half of his face in a scarf just in case an errant reporter comes passing by. By the time he makes it outside, his father had already finished half the walkway. “Otou-san!” Yuuri calls to him, and the smile Toshiya gives him makes the edge he had been walking on since Phichit called feel a little less jagged. 

“Oh, Yuuri!” There it is again — that note of approval he’d heard earlier, this time, in his father’s voice. Toshiya’s gaze tracks to the shovel in Yuuri’s gloved hand. “Here to take over for your old man, huh?”

“Yeah,” Yuuri’s smile can be heard in his voice as he jogs over, to take over for his father. “You can go back in, I can finish. I think there’s a soccer game on television.” 

“Oh?” His father’s eyes glint with barely contained interest. Yuuri knows just how much his father loves the sport; that it’s just about the only thing he’s ever expressed real interest in, outside of the family business and his once-a-year visits to Hasetsu. “Do you know who’s playing?”

“No,” Yuuri admits, and his father gives him a good-natured smile, then pats him on the shoulder before he heads back in.

“I’ll tell your mother to make you some katsudon,” his father calls over to him from the doorway.

The morning air is so cold that the bottom layer of snow hasn’t started to melt yet, so the shoveling doesn’t end up being quite as bad as it looks.

Yuuri had thought that it was going to be a battle; the snow was so high, it nearly brushed his knees. It was almost like shoveling air, how light the snow felt on Yuuri’s shovel. 

This isn’t so bad, he thinks, as he works his way down the walkway. He can see himself falling into this, into the path his parents had always wanted him to walk. This is the eventuality he had been running away from his entire life; maybe, it’s time to stop running, to put his feet down on the ground. He can stop dreaming of the stars, of being able to put his hands around the impossible. He can bury the part of him that was once a small piece of the entire universe, and stand on the small piece of earth his parents had spent their entire lives toiling to build, for himself and for his sister.

The end of the walkway comes much faster than he had expected, and Yuuri turns to look at his work. The path leading back to the bed and breakfast is clear. Yuuri lets his gaze briefly sweep out before him at the road, still obscured by snow. Even if he wanted to run away again, there is no leaving. At least, not anytime soon. 

He turns and walks back to Yu-topia, dragging his shovel behind him, and opens the door. Something brown and heavy jumps up at him, and Yuuri staggers back. The ground, slippery and wet beneath his boots, gives no traction, and Yuuri’s world tilts as his knees buckle, feet slipping beneath him. Pain shoots through his buttocks and up his lower back, and the heavy thing on his chest slams him onto the ground. Two round, shining black eyes look down at him over a wet, black nose. Yuuri realizes that the brown thing is, in fact, a very large, very cute, very familiar poodle.

“Vicchan?” Yuuri is confused, shocked, and for a moment he forgets that his dog, the one that looked just like Viktor’s, the one he _named_ after him, is no longer alive to jump on him. 

A large, warm, wet tongue starts to lick his face a moment later, and Yuuri comes back to himself. Remembers: Vicchan’s not here anymore. This poodle is so much larger, her weight heavy, pressing on his chest. He remembers when Vicchan used to climb up on him, licking his face. The feeling was nothing like this at all, this heavy thing pushing him down. He doesn’t know what to make of it, if this dog really is that heavy, or if it’s just all in his head. But the dog is so happy to see him, that he can’t help but melt under her kisses. The weight falls away within him, and all he feels is warmth. He pulls his gloves off to bury his fingers in her fur.

“Hey, hey, you can’t just kiss strangers like that!” Yuuri grins as he sits up and gently eases the poodle off him, then climbs up onto his feet. Her tail wags furiously as she looks up at him, panting happily. From this angle, Yuuri realizes that she looks just like Viktor’s dog. The resemblance is a little uncanny, but Yuuri supposes that most poodles look alike. After all, there was a moment when he saw in this dog the ghost of his own.

“Mari-neechan,” Yuuri calls as he closes the lobby door and takes off his snow boots to exchange for indoor slippers, “do you know who this dog belongs to? She’s jumping on people. The guests might complain.” 

“Eh?” Mari emerges from the sitting room, where she had been building a rather sizeable fire in the fireplace. Her eyes fall down on the dog, then back up to Yuuri. Her mouth wavers for a moment, the corner twitching strangely, before it eases into a tight smile. “Oh, I think her owner is in the restaurant,” she says lightly, and then turns her back on him. Her hand, when it rises to wave him off, is dismissive. “Go find him there, and tell him to control his dog.”

“How am I going to know who he is?” Yuuri asks, just as Mari starts to head back to the fireplace. His question makes her stop in her tracks, and she turns her gaze over her shoulder to look at him.

Maybe, it’s a trick of the light, but Yuuri can swear that there’s a glint in her eyes. “Trust me,” she says, her voice like curling smoke, “you won’t miss him.”

Yuuri doesn’t know why his sister has to be so weird, sometimes. He sighs with exasperation, and then looks down at the poodle, who has taken to sitting down on the floor, her tail still happily wagging. “Come on, let’s go find your owner,” he says to her, and maybe she understands him, because when he starts to walk towards the restaurant, she follows.

“Ah, I really wish you hadn’t jumped on me earlier,” Yuuri says, when each step he takes twinges with a dull, throbbing ache deep in his glutes. He’s probably going to have a nasty bruise there, tomorrow. The poodle just pants in response, trotting alongside him, blithely unconcerned. “Well,” he says, after staring at her a moment, “I guess you’re very cute, so you’re forgiven.”

The poodle just wags her tail, and then picks up her pace, running ahead of him to the open doorway of the restaurant.

Yuuri follows her in a moment later.

Yu-topia Japanese Restaurant is a small, cozy restaurant that evokes the authenticity of a Hasetsu ryokan, built off the side of the bed and breakfast. Yuuri’s parents had fitted it with a tatami floor, which requires patrons to remove their shoes before stepping up from the large genkan onto the raised floor. Low, wooden tables and plush, silk cushions line the interior; the ones hugging the walls are sectioned off by shoji screens that slide shut for privacy. There is a long sushi bar set towards the back of the establishment, where diners can order the finest omakase in New England, with a view of the large backyard garden through windows that line the entirety of the back wall. Even from the lobby entrance, Yuuri can make out the koi pond, which anchors the eye, and the balance of the garden.

It’s lunchtime, but the restaurant is eerily quiet, even though it isn’t empty at all. Yuuri steps out of his slippers, his gaze sliding across the patrons. None of the shoji screens are closed off, and it seems like every phone in the restaurant is out.

The poodle jumps up onto the floor of the restaurant before Yuuri can stop her, her body a soft, brown blur that rushes down the aisle of the tables to her owner.

“Makkachin! There you are!”

Yuuri’s heart stops in his throat, as every part of him locks up. He knows that voice. He knows that voice better than he’s known anything in his life. He can hear it inside of him still, ringing in his ears, in all the parts of him that ever wanted to be filled by music. It rises, swift like a river after a snowmelt, faster than he could have ever predicted, bright and uncontained and so full, Yuuri feels bursting with it, because he’s here, _he’s here_. It couldn’t have been for more than half a second, half a beat of a song that never started. The feeling shimmers like diaphanous silk, before rending itself to pieces, and all Yuuri can feel is the choking wet in his throat, as his mind finally registers what his eyes had been looking towards his entire life.

Viktor Nikiforov sits at the center table of the restaurant on a silk cushion, chopsticks in one hand, and a piece of tonkatsu caught between them. His other is plunged into the softness of Makkachin’s coat, his face turned down to smile fondly upon her as he chides her with words too soft for Yuuri to hear from his place at the edge of the floor. Like this, with his face turned to the side, Viktor’s profile is like that of a young god cut out of marble, skin impossibly smooth.

Yuuri’s never seen him like this before, relaxed and unguarded.

The smile on Viktor’s face is the softest thing Yuuri’s ever seen him wear.

Yuuri’s mouth works around syllables he doesn’t quite realize he’s forming until the sound is out, vibrating through the air, and it’s too late to retract them. “Vi-Viktor? What are you doing here?”

Viktor’s gaze is impossibly blue when he turns to look at Yuuri, silver hair falling over one eye. If Yuuri could even move his body at all, he would probably clamp a hand over his mouth, as though he could somehow push back into him the words that had drawn attention to himself. But every part of him is hopelessly frozen in place, except for the thing in his chest that beats wild and loud and graceless.

Viktor looks him over coolly, his expression smooth like glass, for the duration of a quarter note. And then, in the next beat, his face transforms with a vivific smile, bright and bold. “Why, eating this katsu- _don_ , of course!” Viktor waves the piece of tonkatsu that he grips with his chopsticks. “It’s very delicious! You should try it.”  

Viktor tells Yuuri to try his family’s katsudon as though it isn’t, in fact, his favorite food in the world. As though he did not spend the past three months eating as much of it as he could, to fill up the hollowed-out space within him that music had held. 

Yuuri knows Viktor can’t possibly have come all the way from Los Angeles or Moscow or London or any of his other homes, to this sleepy, quiet town where nothing ever happens in winter, just to tell him to try his family’s katsudon. He’s here because of Yuuri, because of what Yuuri did. Because, Yuuri had embarrassed him terribly, stolen from him something that wasn’t his.

Yuuri tries to form words, tries to find the right thing to say, to shape his mouth into some semblance of apology. But there’s something wrong with his tongue. It seems to be stuck to the roof of his mouth, and Yuuri can’t seem to figure out how to curl it into some sort of sound.

Viktor cants his head curiously, his eyes gleaming. “ _Wow_!” The word is long and drawn out, and Yuuri almost flinches at the sound of it. “You must really not like katsu- _don_ , huh?” Viktor has seem to mistaken Yuuri’s silence for dislike of what he holds in his hand. Yuuri watches mutely as Viktor shoves the piece of katsudon in his mouth and chews with great relish, then swallows. “Oh! By the way, I need you to sign this,” says Viktor, and his arm slides forward. Yuuri’s eyes track down to the neat, stapled pile of paper under Viktor’s fingers. There’s quite a lot of neatly printed black text on the front page.

Realization punches through Yuuri’s chest, a harsh blow that drives all the air out of his lungs.

Viktor isn’t here to eat his family’s katsudon, or to give Yuuri the verbal lashing he’s so certain he so richly deserves. He’s here, because he’s taking legal action against Yuuri. Viktor intends to sue him, to make sure Yuuri can never make a single red cent off him, to thoroughly destroy any possibility of Yuuri having a career after this. He’ll make it a very public affair, tearing Yuuri down before the entire world, ripping apart any credibility Yuuri might have had as a musician. 

Viktor’s here, because he wants Yuuri to know that he’s personally invested in carrying out Yuuri’s destruction.

It wouldn’t have been enough to send the paperwork by courier or by his attorney.

Viktor wanted to see the look on Yuuri’s face when he delivered it.

Yuuri reels. He feels like he’s falling again, dropping from ten thousand feet high in the air, as Viktor watches, the sun of his smile burning up every part of Yuuri, heat rising up to his face and into his eyes. 

Yuuri doesn’t know how he finds the strength in him to move his feet, how he forces himself to the edge of Viktor’s table. But what he’s about to do isn’t something that can or should be done from ten feet away. Viktor needs to know, needs to see, just how sorry Yuuri is, how terribly he feels that this had happened. Yuuri doesn’t even care if he doesn’t have a career in music after, if he never again sets foot on a stage in his life. As long as Viktor knows the truth, as long as he understands Yuuri never meant for any of this, maybe Yuuri can somehow manage to find some to survive.

The ground crashes up against his knees, and Yuuri doesn’t care if they’re red and bruised tomorrow morning. Doesn’t care how pathetic it looks, for him to be kneeling on the ground before Viktor like this, forehead pressed to the floor. Doesn’t care that in America, this is not how you apologize. Simply saying the words aloud wouldn’t be enough. Viktor needs to see it, needs to witness Yuuri’s penitence with his own eyes. 

There is a sea rising up within him, pressing against the back of Yuuri’s closed eyelids. He can taste it, salt at the back of his throat. And when he speaks, his voice is a shaky, quiet thing delivered in pianissimo. “I—I just want to say... how sorry I am about the video. I didn’t know that someone was recording. I never wanted to—I never wanted this to happen. I didn’t mean for everyone to see it…I’m sorry, Viktor. I’m so sorry.”

Yuuri doesn’t know if Viktor will accept this, if he will accept _him_ , back bent, forehead pressed to the ground Viktor walks on. He doesn’t know if he’ll believe him, or if he thinks Yuuri is just trying to manipulate him, to get out of the destruction Viktor intends to mete out.

For a long, shuddering moment, silence stretches out between them. It’s nothing like the pause of breath between two notes. It’s a crushing, violent thing that sweeps through Yuuri like wildfire. Yuuri is burning, every part of him trembling, too terrified to lift his head.

Silk scrapes across the rough surface of tatami, and Yuuri can feel Viktor moving, fabric whispering as he shifts. Suddenly, something soft and warm brushes under Yuuri’s chin and tilts up his face, and everything inside of him spins to a stop. Viktor’s fingers are under his chin, an inch away from the thunder of his pulse. Viktor holds him in place, and Yuuri doesn’t even know what it is that he feels. He can barely sense the salt burning at the corners of his eyes, can barely even tell if he’s breathing or not.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Viktor says, so softly, and the look in his eyes and the curve of his mouth is the most tender thing Yuuri has ever felt. “I don’t mind that everyone saw it,” he continues, and Yuuri stops thinking, stops trying to make sense of what’s happening, because he doesn’t understand any of this at all. Viktor’s fingers are a warm, steady anchor around his chin, and Yuuri feels like they are the only thing keeping him from falling apart. “I was very touched, and quite impressed. Why do you think I’m here?” 

“I... don’t know...” says Yuuri, voice as unsteady as the way he feels. He had been so certain, so sure, that Viktor couldn’t possibly have liked what he saw; that he had come here to hurt him, to render him to ash and dust. And Yuuri knows how beautifully Viktor Nikiforov lies. How effortless it is for him, to speak such terrible things with the most beautiful smile. But the smile on his face—the look in his eyes—this isn’t the look of someone who wants to destroy. This is the look of something else, and Yuuri doesn’t know what it is he’s looking at. 

“Yuuuuuuri~” Viktor practically sings his name aloud, and Yuuri feels it in his blood. It vibrates through the very root of him, and it feels like Viktor has his fingers set on Yuuri’s keys, and knows entirely how to play him. Yuuri should have expected that it would have been this way. After all, didn’t Viktor always know just how to surprise him?

Viktor laughs, and in that moment, winter is far, far away.

What comes next is something Yuuri could have never predicted:

“Starting today, I’m going to be your manager and producer,” says Viktor, his voice ringing through the treble of Yuuri’s shock. “I’ll make you win the next _Grand Prix Elite_... _and_ a Grammy.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Glossary**  
>  _In-ear monitor_ \- An earpiece worn by performers and crew to allow them to hear music on stage.  
>  _In ears_ \- Short for "in-ear monitors." This is how live industry pros usually refer to them colloquially.  
>  _Monitor engineer_ \- The sound engineer that controls the in-ear monitor levels  
>  _Intercom_ \- A headset closed radio circuit that allows production crew to communicate  
>  _A &R agent_ \- Artist & Repertoire agent. These are the people who scout for new talent and also work with artists to develop their music. Usually hired by labels.  
>  _Arpeggio_ \- Notes of a chord played in a very melodious, sweeping succession. Often connected with quite a lot of other arpeggios for dramatic effect on piano.  
>  _Pianissimo_ \- Very soft and quiet.
> 
> \---
> 
> Thank you guys so much for reading! I can't begin to express how grateful I am that you managed to get through so many, many words. I'm also _especially_ grateful to my editor, [@powerandpathos](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/powerandpathos), for the countless hours of editing and chatting with me about this fic. Without her, I wouldn't have had the inspiration to put down a single word! (So go check out her fics, too. They're _awesome_.)
> 
> A huge thank you to [crimson-chains](http://crimson-chains.tumblr.com) for the beautiful cover art for _Encore_!
> 
> For those of you wondering, I've set this entire fic in the United States to localize Viktor and Yuuri within one music market. The global music market is generally very much regionally separated. Because American music dominates global music repertoires, I felt it would be more effective to localize them in the states. 
> 
> In this fic, both Viktor and Yuuri are first-generation Russian/Japanese-American (so they grew up in the U.S. and are American citizens). ^^
> 
> \---
> 
>   
>  **If you liked this fic, please leave kudos or share with your friends! Or leave a comment if you'd like to see more.**
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! You can find me on Tumblr at [subtextually.tumblr.com](http://subtextually.tumblr.com) if you'd like to chat! ^^


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited by [powerandpathos](http://archiveofourown.org/users/powerandpathos)  
> 
> 
> **Note:** Please read the glossary in the end notes before reading the chapter, or have the end notes open in another window. There are a lot of technical music publishing terms that are used in this chapter. 
> 
> [Click to listen to Encore's OST](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLDn2XGRgVg3zg6cU-RlRCTEDnhhgaA8LW)

_Starting today, I’m going to be your manager and producer. I’ll make you win the next Grand Prix Elite… and a Grammy._

Thunder crashes through the silence, stretching the duration of four measures, as the echo of Viktor’s words fades in the air, dissipating like dust in sunlight. Yuuri thinks for a moment that he must have heard wrong.

It was the thunder that did it, shaped Viktor’s mouth into the impossibility of a dream Yuuri had been ready to give up. There is an endless roar in his ears, a deafening thing that drowns out all sound, all comprehension of the words Viktor couldn’t possibly have said.

Viktor’s mouth is still shaped in the soft curve of a smile.

Yuuri can catch the glint of teeth just beyond the swell of his lips, which, as he watches, slowly stretches wider, until he can see the bright flash of Viktor’s teeth—a dazzling grin. Viktor’s mouth parts, and Yuuri dazedly realizes that there are words being formed, words that he can’t hear past the roar in his ears. He’s dizzy with shock, every part of him trembling like a leaf caught in a storm, and he thinks the only reason why he hasn’t blown away yet is because Viktor hasn’t let go.

He can feel the strength of Viktor’s fingers still pressing under his chin, and all Yuuri can think is that these are the fingers that Viktor had used to perform; the same fingers that had written Billboard-topping records; the same fingers that won Grammys and the _Grand Prix Elite_. Viktor’s fingers seem to be the only thing Yuuri can focus on, the only thing that seems real.

“Well? What do you say?” Viktor’s voice sweeps back into Yuuri’s ears in full stereo sound, syllables clipped and buzzing through the thrum of Yuuri’s blood.

Yuuri stares at him, eyes wide, mouth parted in shock, his heart a clap of thunder in his chest.

Reality slowly comes back into sharp focus, and Yuuri realizes, trembling, that this is real. This is happening. Viktor is really here, with his fingers under Yuuri’s chin, crouched in front of him. Viktor had seen the video, had come all the way to Yuuri’s hometown, because he was touched by whatever it was that he saw. Because he was impressed by Yuuri’s performance of his song. That alone should have been too much to bear, the knowledge that Yuuri had somehow performed something that Viktor actually found impressive; but it was far more than that — Viktor isn’t just here to tell him that he was impressed.

I’m going to make your dreams come true, he doesn’t say, but Yuuri hears the promise, just the same.

“Yuuri?” Viktor’s breath is warm and sweet as it slides across Yuuri’s face, and Yuuri shudders with the realization of just how _close_ Viktor is to him. His eyes are startlingly bright, like the sky had descended into his gaze, and Yuuri finds himself held by them effortlessly, unable to look away.

“Vi-Viktor, I—” Yuuri starts to say, when a camera flash goes off, a whiplash of light.

Yuuri jerks back, ripping his chin out of Viktor’s grip, sitting upright. For the first time since he walked into the restaurant and heard Viktor’s voice, he remembers that there are other guests in the restaurant, that they aren’t alone. That the world isn’t comprised solely of just Viktor and himself.  

Yuuri forces his gaze from Viktor’s face to scan the restaurant, and, with a sinking horror, realizes that just about every phone in the entire restaurant is out, all of them, pointed in their direction. He can imagine what the headlines are going to look like, with the way Viktor had cradled his burning face.

Quickly, Yuuri grabs Viktor by the wrist with one hand, and rises, knees aching, his movements a little uncoordinated due to the bulkiness of the winter clothing he’s wearing. Distantly, he’s aware of the odd image they must paint in the photographs that will surely hit social media networks within the hour: Yuuri, awkward and bumbling, bundled up for the outdoors in a blue knit beanie, black scarf, and a puffy blue-and-white parka. His dark water-resistant pants are splotchy from melted snow and specked with white salt. Viktor, on the other hand, looks immaculate in an elegant, light blue cashmere sweater and form-fitting charcoal denim pants. Yuuri can only imagine how ridiculous he must look standing next to Viktor.  

“Come with me,” Yuuri says, and tries to ignore the hot flush that goes through him when Viktor’s voice rumbles beside his ear in a low, lilting purr, “Yuuri~ where are we going?”

Yuuri pointedly doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t let go of Viktor’s wrist until they step into the wide genkan at the front of the restaurant, Makkachin trailing behind.

“There’s… too many people,” Yuuri explains. “I’d rather talk about this somewhere more… private.”

“Why?” Viktor says, with a slight tilt of the head. “I don’t see anything wrong with staying right where we were.” His expression is quizzical.

“They were recording…”

“Recording?” Viktor looks confused for a moment, before something like understanding settles in his gaze. The mirth that had danced at the corners of his mouth softens slightly. “Okay,” he says, as he sets down the paperwork he’d brought with him, so that he can bend down and tie his shoes.

Yuuri stares at the top of his head, wondering if maybe Viktor hadn’t realized that the cameras were out, because he takes it as a given — being recorded in public. Is that what it’s like to be famous? Yuuri had never really considered what it meant —  the implications of fame. Fame, for Yuuri, had always been Viktor’s name on the covers of glossy magazines and Viktor’s bright smile on television; the thunder of a crowd in the moments before Viktor’s shows, and the madness of the meet-and-greet after. It was Viktor’s hand in his, once, when he was fourteen; Viktor’s autograph on the poster above his bed.

Never once did Yuuri consider what it might be like to be actually famous. How difficult it must really be.

All he ever thought about was the music, and standing on the stage next to Viktor.

He wanted a record deal. He wanted to share his music with the world. He didn’t think about what came after.

The small brush with fame Yuuri had while competing on _Grand Prix Voice_ was barely noteworthy; no one ever recognized him when he wore his glasses and didn’t have his hair slicked back, unlike the other competitors. It was as though he was split in half — the Yuuri who was on stage, and the Yuuri who wasn’t.  

The attention he had received, since the video of his cover went viral, was overwhelming.

Is it like this all the time, for Viktor?

The sudden, looming presence of a very large, muscular man with cropped brown hair and a crooked nose startles Yuuri. He hadn’t even noticed the man sitting in the restaurant, hadn’t even heard him walk up. The man cuts an imposing figure in black, and Yuuri’s gaze tracks to the small, wired earpiece in his left ear.

“Is everything okay?” he asks Viktor. 

“I’m just going to have a chat with Yuuri, somewhere private,” Viktor tells him as he straightens up.

The man grunts, as his gaze washes over Yuuri, quiet and appraising, before it slides back to Viktor. “I will follow,” he says.

“No,” Viktor says curtly as he picks up the papers once more. “That won’t be necessary, Max. We’ll be back, soon.”

A deep frown creases the space between Max’s eyebrows, as Yuuri realizes that this man is part of Viktor’s security detail, and most likely doesn’t like the idea of his client not being in his line of sight, in an establishment that has significantly sub-par security compared to Viktor’s usual standards. Yuuri can’t even imagine what those standards must be like, if Viktor has to travel with more than one security guard everywhere he goes.  

“It’s okay, Viktor. I don’t mind if he comes…” He glances at Max. “Maybe he can keep other people from recording or taking pictures,” Yuuri offers, in an attempt to disrupt the tension.

“Are you sure?” Viktor asks softly, and Yuuri nods.

They find themselves in the warm, quiet comfort of the sitting room just off the lobby, with its large, looming fireplace in the center. Mari had built an impressive fire earlier. The wood crackles and pops as it burns. The smell of it fills Yuuri’s nose, and he finds the familiarity strangely comforting. It’s as though the intangibility of smoke could help him make sense of Viktor’s presence settled into the large, oversized wingback armchair next to his. Makkachin is stretched out on the floor before them, and Max is fading into the shadows towards the very back of the room, giving them considerable privacy.

Like this, Viktor seems somehow less intimidating. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that Viktor is at arm’s length, and his eyes are trained on the fire, instead of on Yuuri. Yuuri had worked his way out of his bulky outerwear, and sits awkwardly in the chair next to Viktor, in his grey UCLA sweatshirt and salt-stained pants, twisting his beanie in his hands.

“Viktor…” Yuuri says quietly, after a long moment of the two of them simply sitting there, watching the fire. “Did you really mean what you said?”

“Of course, I did,” he says. “I never do anything unless I’m serious about it.” Yuuri can feel the steady intensity of his gaze washing over him. He can’t look at Viktor — not now. It’s too much to know that he’s really here, sitting next to Yuuri in the flesh.

Yuuri doesn’t have the security of glossy paper or a television screen to hide behind. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to act around Viktor, or what he’s even supposed to say to him. Words have never been more difficult than at this moment. Does he tell Viktor that he’s grateful he came all this way? That he’s thankful Viktor wants to manage him and believes he can win something as challenging as the _Grand Prix Elite_ and even a Grammy? Yuuri doesn’t even know _how_ it would be possible — he doesn’t even have a record deal.

“ _Why_?” Yuuri asks, and wishes that he knew how to stop the tremble in his voice. “Why do you think I can win?” Yuuri doesn’t know how he manages to get the next words out. They feel heavy and awkward, like the rest of him. “I came in last place in the finals of the _Grand Prix Voice_ …”

“Yuuri, I saw you play,” Viktor reminds him, and something in his voice makes Yuuri dare to glance at him. Viktor is looking at him intently, but not with quite as much intensity as before. There’s something soft there, something that makes Yuuri want to keep looking back. “You’re the only other person in the world, besides me, who’s performed ‘Stay Close to Me’ so perfectly, and managed to capture its true meaning. I don’t just think you can win. I _know_ you can.”

“But—but it was just a cover,” Yuuri’s voice comes out a bare whisper, tinged in disbelief.

“No, it wasn’t just a cover,” Viktor says, his voice leaving no room for argument. “It was much more than that.”

Yuuri had never considered the possibility that a day like this might come. He had dreamt of standing on a stage with Viktor, the crowd screaming both of their names. He had imagined what it might be like, the heat of the lights on their faces, so bright they would barely be able to make out the audience that stretched as far as the eye could see. Viktor’s smile would be as wonderful as the way it felt to finally stand next to him on stage with the knowledge that Yuuri had worked hard enough, long enough, to have earned the distinction.

Sitting next to him now, side by side, before a crackling fire in his childhood home, Yuuri doesn’t know how he has done anything to earn this moment with Viktor. He had spent hours practicing Viktor’s piece, had learned it so well, that it had become a part of him. But he had thought that Viktor hated imitation; that he didn’t like people who pretended to be something they weren’t. And yet, hadn’t Yuuri done just that? Played Viktor’s piece exactly the way that he had heard Viktor play?

He doesn’t understand what it is that Viktor heard in his performance, what it is that Viktor sees in him. But Viktor is here, sitting beside him, telling him that he can win. Telling him that he wants to manage him, produce him. That he wants to take him all the way to the _Grand Prix Elite_ and the Grammys.

Viktor _believes_ in him.

Something inside of Yuuri ignites with the realization, and he’s suddenly warm all over, a shy, small smile slowly spreading its way across the curve of his mouth.

“Besides,” Viktor continues, and the confidence that cuts across his mouth at that moment is dazzling, “with me as your producer, how could you possibly lose?”

  


*

 

Yuuri still can’t believe that this is really happening.

He stares down at the contract in his hands, at the title of it, his name next to Viktor’s in black ink.

The paperwork Viktor had wanted Yuuri to sign turned out to be a contract. Viktor explained that in order to protect Yuuri’s own interests, as well as Viktor’s own, a contract would be necessary. This is, after all, a business relationship. Take your time and go over it, Viktor had told him, but the look on his face was that of a man who already knew what the outcome would be. Viktor had no doubt that Yuuri would sign the contract, and Yuuri hadn’t even read any of it.

Yuuri sits down on his bed, and flips through the pages slowly.

It’s all very boilerplate, similar to the kind of contracts that he had to study in the entertainment law course at UCLA. As far as he can tell, there isn’t anything too glaring that jumps out at him.  

The only thing missing appears to be a clause regarding how Yuuri will actually obtain a record deal. Even though there are clauses that discuss what happens when and if a record deal might be signed, there is no mention of _how_ it might happen. Viktor’s contractual responsibilities don’t state that he’s required to shop Yuuri’s music to any labels or publishers at all; it seems to say he’ll do everything else _except_ for label shopping, which Yuuri frowns at.

Without record label backing, Yuuri wouldn’t be able to compete in _Grand Prix Elite_ ; he certainly wouldn’t be able to be nominated for a Grammy, either.

The _Grand Prix Elite_ is the preeminent live performance competition for the world’s top performance artists. Like the Grammys, competitors on the _Grand Prix Elite_ must be nominated by industry voting members; however, where the Grammys sends nominations to members of the recording industry, the _Grand Prix Elite_ sends its nominations to the live industry. In order to compete on the _Grand Prix Elite_ , an artist must have had at least one record chart on Billboard Hot 100, and additionally, must have staged at least one tour, comprising a minimum of four dates, within the previous touring year.  

Like any other competitive talent show on television, the _Grand Prix Voice_ selects its competitors through a grueling audition process open to independent and amateur musicians. However, the _Grand Prix Elite_ doesn’t have an audition process. Yuuri had competed on the _Grand Prix Voice_ in the hopes of securing record label backing so that he might one day be able to compete in the _Grand Prix Elite,_ and find himself standing on the same stage as Viktor. He doesn’t know how Viktor expects he’ll ever be able to see that stage, let alone even qualify for it, without a record label to support him.

The idea that Yuuri might somehow be able to release a charting record on Billboard is already difficult enough to imagine; that he can manage to do so without record label support is completely preposterous. And then, there’s the question of touring — Yuuri doesn’t have a large repertoire he can tour with. He barely has enough material for a twenty minute set, let alone two hours.

Even if he did have enough material, Yuuri wouldn’t be able to afford touring; he doesn’t even have enough money to purchase a secondhand piano.

The path Viktor has chosen for him grows more precarious with every passing moment that Yuuri studies the contract.

He calls Phichit.

“Hey, Yuuri! It’s good to hear from you,” says Phichit when he answers after the third ring. “How are you?”

“Phichit, I... I have something I need to tell you, actually…” Yuuri says, after a moment. “Viktor... Nikiforov is... here.”

Phichit’s silence stretches out a long beat. And then, very flatly: “What.”

“I mean,” says Yuuri, staring down at the contract in his hand, “he’s in my house. He— he was eating katsudon, and, and he’s rented a room, and his security guards are here, and his dog is really cute, and—”

Phichit _shrieks_ , and Yuuri nearly drops his phone, just as Phichit says, “Wait—Are you serious? You’re not joking, right?”

“He said he wants to manage and produce me,” Yuuri says aloud, for the first time, a flush of something hot and prickly and bright swelling up within him, “and— and he wants me to compete in next year’s _Grand Prix Elite_ …”

This time, Yuuri pulls his phone away from his ear, before Phichit has the opportunity to shriek into it again. “Yuuri! Yuuri, that’s— That’s great, that’s— I’m so _happy_ for you! Oh my god,” he says. And then, again, “Oh my _god_ . I can’t— My best friend is going to be managed by Viktor Nikiforov. _Viktor. Nikiforov._ This is— Yuuri, this is _huge_!”

“Thanks, Phichit,” Yuuri can hardly contain his smile. “But um… Viktor gave me this contract, and… I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with it.”   

There’s a beat of silence on the other end of the line. “Yuuri,” Phichit says eventually, very slowly, very seriously. “This is very important. Are you listening?”

“... Yes?”

“Are you by your desk?”

“Yes.” Yuuri glances at his desk, with his laptop sitting on it. Maybe Phichit wants him to scan the contract and send it to him.

“Okay, Yuuri. This is what you need to do. Open your drawer, find a pen, and sign your name on the signature page.”

Yuuri nearly falls over. Of course, Phichit would say something like that.

“But… Viktor told me that if I wanted to, I should consult with my attorney about it…” Yuuri realizes he’s clutching the phone a little too tightly. “Phichit, I don’t have an attorney… I don’t know what… I don’t know if I should just sign it. Should I call Ciao Ciao?”

“Ah… No… I don’t think that’s a very good idea, Yuuri,” Phichit says, and Yuuri knows the tone he’s using — this is what Phichit sounds like when he’s being _professional_. “Ciao Ciao probably wouldn’t really like the fact that you’re signing with another manager. He released you completely from your contract with him, including your sunset clause, right?”

“Right.”

“So, that means he won’t be able to benefit off anything you do with Viktor. You could come out with a number one hit single tomorrow, and Ciao Ciao wouldn’t make a cent. Even though he might still be supportive of what you do, I don’t think it’d be very fair to ask Ciao Ciao to look at a contract you might sign with Viktor.”

Yuuri feels the weight of Phichit’s words settling in him. Phichit, as if hearing the heavy silence that has settled, offers Yuuri a simple solution: “Why don’t you send me the contract? I’ll send it to my attorney to review.”

“Eh?” Yuuri hadn’t expected that at all. He had thought that Phichit might give him advice, but he certainly didn’t expect him to actually get involved like this. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure! You’re my best friend. I wouldn’t want you to be caught in a contract you can’t get out of.”

“Thanks, Phichit. This means a lot.” Yuuri’s voice trembles, his mind reeling, chest bursting with gratitude, and he ends the call.    
  


*

 

At times like this, when Yuuri feels caught up in the spin of the world and can’t seem to find his balance, music is what he normally relies on to center him. He would walk ten minutes to the nearest piano and let his fingers work through whatever tangle he had found himself in. The effect music had on him when he let it fill him, when he became one with it — it was like gravity, pulling him back down from the stratosphere.

But a look outside his bedroom window reveals that there’s still too much snow on the streets; most likely, the stores wouldn’t even be open.  

Yuuri’s fingers ache to hold onto something that is certain  — something that isn’t the pressure of not being able to live up to Viktor’s expectations of him.

Viktor seems to think he’s capable of so much — too much. Yuuri doesn’t know how he’ll be able to ascend to the heights Viktor has set for him. The conviction in Viktor’s eyes, the feeling of it, still glows within him like the first spark of an incipient flame that had not yet caught kindling. He’s all spark and no fire, and he’s not sure how to ignite the burn he knows Viktor will want to see in him.

Yuuri had spent the past three months of his life believing he was nobody, that he was destined for mediocrity.

It’s hard to shake a belief like that, even with Viktor Nikiforov telling him otherwise.

But the spark within him — maybe that’s enough. Maybe he can hold onto that, put his hand around it, help it grow into something more.

A knock interrupts Yuuri’s reverie, and pulls him away from his window, where, just beyond, the sun is starting to make its descent.  When he opens the door, he finds Viktor standing before it with a brilliant smile on his face and Makkachin by his side.

Viktor raises a hand in greeting. “Yuuri~! I thought I would—” Yuuri abruptly slams the door in Viktor’s face. He is gasping, back pressed against the door—the door he has just slammed in Viktor’s _face_ —his eyes wildly scanning his room.

Viktor’s face leaps off just about every surface, and Yuuri nearly has a small aneurysm.

Viktor can’t see this — can’t see just how much Yuuri idolizes him. He’d never be able to take Yuuri seriously, if he saw the extent of Yuuri’s adoration for him.

He hears another cautious knock at the door, and Viktor saying his name. “I—I’m sorry Viktor!” Yuuri calls out, heart hammering in his chest. “I need a minute! My room’s — it’s just a mess!”

Viktor laughs through his door, mellifluous. Yuuri is already in a frenzy of motion when hears him say, bemused, “I don’t mind a mess, Yuuri.”

“Well, I— I do!” Yuuri calls back, tearing down the posters hanging over his bed — all five of them. He rolls them up quickly, and shoves them under his bed. There are framed pictures of Viktor, along with a small bobblehead of Viktor that he’d gotten on his last tour, right on his desk. Amongst his pillows, on his bed, most damning of all, is a Viktor plush toy. It’s wearing a tiny top hat and a lilac-colored jacket, embroidered with gold soutache, smiling up at him, merrily, with a heart-shaped mouth.

Yuuri collects all of his Viktor Nikiforov memorabilia in his arms and tries to stuff it all in his closet. When Yuuri was in his last year of high school, Mari had bought him a life-sized, cardboard cutout Viktor, which he couldn’t bring himself to throw away. He trips over it now, catching his foot on it from where it stands in the corner of his room, and crashes face-first into his collection of tour shirts.

Viktor’s knock resounds through the door again. “Yuuuu~riii~~ Are you okay in there? Do you need some help?”

“I’M FINE!” Yuuri yells, breath ragged, as he picks himself up off the floor, momentarily blinded by an **I** **♡ VIKTOR** t-shirt that had somehow wrapped itself around his head. He shoves it, rather gracelessly, back inside the closet.

“Are you... sure?”

“Yes! Yes, I’m fine! Please don’t come in yet, Viktor!” He cringes at his voice; he’s half-begging.

It’s maddening, the way Viktor’s face keeps _appearing_ in Yuuri’s room, despite Yuuri’s best attempts to hide all of his memorabilia. There, on his nightstand: a well-worn, heavily earmarked biography with Viktor’s smiling face on the cover; and there, on his dresser: a collection of pins and collectibles he’d gotten throughout the years.  Yuuri hadn’t even realized just how much memorabilia he’d amassed over all the years that he’d been a fan; how was it possible for anyone to have so many different items bearing Viktor’s name?

Eventually, he manages to stash most of his collection away, and pulls open the door, red-faced, skin slightly gleaming with a sheen of sweat, glasses askew on the bridge of his nose. Completely out of breath.

“Sorry about the wait,” Yuuri manages to say as Viktor blinks, a little surprised, as his gaze travels somewhere above Yuuri’s forehead.

Oh no, Yuuri thinks to himself. Did he somehow get a Viktor sticker stuck in his hair, or something equally embarrassing?

“Your hair is doing something quite… interesting,” Viktor slowly says, and amusement blooms across his mouth as he reaches out and smooths down Yuuri’s hair, which had apparently been sticking up every which way. “Can I come in now?”

Makkachin barks, wagging her tail, for emphasis.

“Yes, please, come in,” Yuuri says and steps aside to invite Viktor in, who closes the door behind him after Makkachin bounds in.

Yuuri stares. He doesn’t know how he had somehow managed to miss it. Hanging right behind Viktor, there is a very large, very colorful poster of him, surrounded by his dancers on stage, during his first Grammy performance. Yuuri had purchased the poster after Viktor had won his first Grammy Awards; the poster had given him hope that maybe one day, he could win too.

Please, Yuuri thinks desperately, trying not to stare too hard at the poster, just behind Viktor’s head. _Please don’t turn around._

“You have a very… cozy room,” Viktor says, his gaze appraising as it slides across Yuuri’s room. It pauses at the bookshelf near his bed, which holds Yuuri’s entire CD and vinyl collection, many of them Viktor’s. “It reminds me a little of mine, when I was growing up.”

Yuuri’s eyes widen a little with surprise. He thought that Viktor had come here to go over the contract with him, or maybe to talk about how exactly he expects Yuuri to gain a nomination for the _Grand Prix Elite_ without a record deal. But instead, Viktor crosses over to his music collection and starts to study it, a faint smile on his face as his gaze moves across the rows that contain his own music.

 _Oh god._ His collection. Yuuri had been so concerned about the amount of Viktor memorabilia in his room, that he had completely forgotten about his collection — row after row of shelving, crammed with every physical recording Viktor had ever released, including ones that had been sold at his earliest concerts, when Viktor was still competing in classical and jazz circuits.

He remembers how it felt the first time he saw Viktor perform, when he was only seven. Viktor was ten years old, already a rising star amongst the youth competition circuits, and Minako had taken Yuuri to New York City, where they watched Viktor compete at Carnegie Hall, in the finals of the International Youth Chopin Competition. Yuuri had never seen anyone play the way Viktor did — there was something about it that Yuuri had wanted to fall into.

Anxiously, Yuuri studies Viktor’s expression, expecting the harsh slap of discomfort in Viktor’s gaze. Instead, Viktor simply continues to quietly look upon the collection, something soft swimming in the sea of his gaze.  

“It seems you have quite the collection, Yuuri,” Viktor says, very lightly. “I approve of your taste in music.” Yuuri can swear that there’s a wink hiding behind the lilt of his words.  

There’s an awkward moment, and then, hesitantly, Yuuri comes to stand next to Viktor. “Ah, yes. I, um, I really liked your music when I was growing up.”

“I can see that,” Viktor says, as he runs a finger across the spines of Yuuri’s collection. “It seems that you have my entire discography here.”

“You don’t think it’s… weird?” Yuuri asks, even though he can hear a note of pride and faint surprise sliding in between Viktor’s syllables.

“No, not at all. I’m honored,” Viktor says, and Yuuri can tell that he means it. Feels it, even. It’s right there, pressing upon the curve of Viktor’s lips, scintillating in the blue of his eyes when he turns to look at Yuuri. “Yuuri, you shouldn’t feel ashamed about your influences. Every musician is influenced by someone else who came before them. Michael Jackson had James Brown, Diana Ross, and Fred Astaire. James Brown had gospel music, blues, and jazz. He was even influenced by his contemporaries — you can hear Elvis Presley and Ray Charles in his music. Everyone has someone who inspires them. It’s not something to be ashamed of.”

“Even you?” 

“Even me,” Viktor says, and Yuuri feels a little less vulnerable, a rush of courage coursing through his blood. He had always wondered what it would be like, to be able to stand next to Viktor, and actually talk to him.

Yuuri used to spend hours watching Viktor’s interviews, breathless with excitement, wondering what Viktor would say next. It always felt like Viktor was right there with him, talking to him, knowing just what was he was thinking. No matter how far away Viktor was, through the television screen, or on stage, with ten thousand people surrounding him, it always felt like Viktor knew that Yuuri was listening. He always knew all the right things to say.

Yuuri can still barely believe that Viktor’s really here, standing in his _bedroom._ He keeps expecting to wake up from all of this, to find himself groggily discovering that none of it ever happened, that he had somehow dreamt it all up.

Now that he has him here, it would be too much of a shame if Yuuri just lets this opportunity pass by. Especially, when it seems like Viktor actually might answer his questions truthfully, with none of the something-extra he adds into his interviews.  

“I… always wanted to ask you,” Yuuri begins, as he looks away from Viktor, eyes sliding past the rows of Viktor’s music, to the shelves housing his jazz collection. “How do you perform in front of so many people, without ever getting nervous?”

He remembers the crushing weight of the audience, the feeling like he was going to drown. The unblinking eye of the spotlight, burning him up. He was Icarus, flown too close to the sun, with all the wax melted off his wings, and the sea was an unforgiving, dark place he could not escape.

“Well,” Viktor says after a pause, his eyes twinkling, “there’s a trick.”

“A trick?”

“Yes. You see, Yuuri, I just imagine everyone naked.” Viktor says this with a slowly spreading grin, and Yuuri splutters, heat rising swiftly to his face. “You can’t possibly be nervous, if everyone is naked.”

Yuuri can’t imagine what’s worse — the idea of performing in front of that many people, or the idea of performing in front of a crowd of _naked_ people. He doesn’t know how Viktor could possibly do it, perform in front of a stadium of people, imagining that none of them have a stitch of clothing on them. Is it somehow easier because, in Viktor’s imagination, they are more vulnerable?

“No,” Yuuri says, wide-eyed, aghast. “That’s so much worse.”

Viktor just laughs, clearly entertained by the horror on Yuuri’s face.

“But—But what about _Yakov_?” Yuuri asks, because there simply no conceivable way he could imagine wanting to see Viktor’s stout, balding manager in any state of undress.

“ _Exactly_ ,” Viktor says with a knowing grin, mirth dancing in his eyes.

“Oh god,” Yuuri drops his burning face into his hands, completely scandalized.

“You’ll get used to it,” Viktor says, and the weight of his hand on Yuuri’s shoulder is exactly what Yuuri didn’t know he needed.

It is warm, and steady, the weight of an anchor in stormy, wine-dark seas.

  


*

 

The call comes after dinner.

Yuuri had spent the afternoon revisiting his music collection with Viktor, who was delighted by the variety of different jazz albums in Yuuri’s possession. They sat on Yuuri’s bed with Makkachin resting between them, listening to Duke Ellington and Miles Davis and Billie Holiday, along with all the other jazz classics in Yuuri’s collection.

“No one really writes songs like this anymore,” Viktor had said as Etta James’s smoky voice floated through Yuuri’s room, sultry and rich and dark.

“What about Adele?” Yuuri asked. “Or Sam Smith? John Legend?”

“Well,” Viktor said, after a moment of contemplation. “They’re the exception to the rule.”

“You are too,” Yuuri said, quietly, cautiously.

Viktor’s smile was a secretive thing, unfurling at the corners of his mouth.

It was strange, how comfortable Yuuri had come to be around Viktor, in such a short period of time. Just hours ago, the thought of even breathing the same air as him seemed a terrifying thing. Yuuri didn’t feel worthy of it, of being so close to him. But after a few hours of listening to jazz and singing along to all the old classics together, somehow, he’d found himself settling into some kind of easy comfort next to Viktor.

It was surreal, having Viktor close enough to touch. Hearing him sing, the timbre of his voice breathtakingly beautiful, bouncing off the terrible acoustics of Yuuri’s bedroom. Gooseflesh broke on Yuuri’s skin as the vibrations of Viktor’s vibrato rolled down his spine. Viktor was such a powerful singer; sitting next to him, actually being able to _feel_ his voice was an experience unlike anything Yuuri ever had in his life. Though he’d seen Viktor sing countless times, had been to so many concerts, nothing compared to the power he could feel emanating from within Viktor, so close. Yuuri could reach out and touch him, feel him warm under his hand.

Yuuri didn’t reach out. He simply watched, entranced, and shyly raised his voice to harmonize, when Viktor encouraged him to sing along to “At Last,” their voices rising as one.

It didn’t feel real. It still doesn’t.

Yuuri couldn’t have dreamt something like that up — it exceeded even his wildest imagination.

“Yuuri?” Phichit’s voice bursts through, and Yuuri remembers that he’s supposed to pay attention to what Phichit had been saying.

“Ah, sorry, Phichit, I— lost you for a moment there. Do you mind repeating what you were saying?” Yuuri smooths his hand out over the spot on his coverlet that Viktor had sat on, just hours ago. If he focuses, he might even be able to feel the warmth of Viktor’s presence still lingering there.

“I said that you should sign the contract.”

Yuuri sits up, warmth forgotten for a moment. “Wait, what? Really?”

“Really,” Phichit says, and Yuuri can picture him: a wide grin on his face, the Californian sun shining on his face, a warm breeze in his hair. “There’s honestly nothing wrong with this contract, Yuuri. If anything, Viktor should have _his_ attorney review it, because it seems like it’s completely in your favor. Of course, he’s taking the usual ten percent of your gross as a manager, which is pretty expected as far as management goes, but as a producer, he’s not asking for any album points. He’s not even asking for a cash advance, or for you to owe him anything from the songs he produces. He only seems interested in making money off the mechanicals and performance, and only wants to split half your points on songs he personally has a hand in producing. He’s not even asking for production exclusivity.” 

“I don’t understand,” Yuuri says, completely confused. Somehow he had misread the contract in his first pass over it. He hadn’t understood the nuances at all. “Why would he do something like this? Don’t all producers like him always take points off the entire album, especially if they’re executive producing?”

“Usually, that’s the idea,” Phichit says. “My attorney said he’s never seen anything like this before. It’s like Viktor only wants to collect a royalty if he personally is involved with the creation of the song. Technically, if you wanted to work with other producers on more songs for your first album, you’d be within your rights to do so, and he wouldn’t take any of your points off those records.”

“So you’re saying, he doesn’t want anything extra, just because he helped with the overall production of an album.”

“Yes.”

“He really doesn’t want _any_ points at all.”

“Yeah, I know. Crazy, isn’t it?”

Yes, Phichit, Yuuri thinks. It’s insane.

“You know what’s even crazier?” Phichit continues. “You’ll own the masters, not him.”  
  
Yuuri can hardly believe what he’s hearing. “ _What?_ ”

Somehow, he had missed that in his first reading of the contract, entirely. Owning the master rights to his own work, even if he isn’t the one who finances and produces the recording, isn’t something he had expected he would be able to have, with Viktor in the picture. He had simply assumed that Viktor would require ownership of the masters; after all, he seems intent on helping Yuuri finance it, and will be producing the songs.

“Yeah, I don’t understand it, either. I don’t know why he wouldn’t want to own the masters, especially on tracks he finances and produces,” Phichit says, and Yuuri can’t help but agree.

“Do you think it’s maybe because he’s also managing, and gets an additional ten percent of my gross?” Yuuri asks, wondering just why Viktor would give up the potential for that kind of money.

“I don’t know, Yuuri,” Phichit says. “It doesn’t make a lot of sense, but then again, Viktor Nikiforov has always done things that aren’t all that expected, so maybe this is just another one of those things.”

“Maybe,” Yuuri says, but he doesn’t know if he believes the sound of his own voice. “Thanks for helping me with this, Phichit. I really appreciate it.”

“Anytime, Yuuri. Anytime.”

 

 

*

 

Night settles upon Haselton like velvet, moonlight spilling across the snow.

The world glows, soft and milky-white, winter falling like a secret whispered in the dark.

Yuuri finds Viktor standing out on the back porch, which had been cleared of snow, earlier in the afternoon. His breath fogs up before him, a hazy cloud forming above his head. In the moonlight, Viktor’s silver hair seems to take on an ethereal glow, his pale skin equally luminescent. He looks surreal, standing out here in the dark, shining. His eyes are trained on a spot somewhere in the distance, the long, tapered fingers of his hands tucked into his pockets.

Yuuri steps out onto the porch alongside Viktor, and realizes that Viktor was watching a sleek, dark shadow tumbling through the white field, next to the koi pond in the distance.

“I couldn’t take Makkachin for a real walk,” Viktor explains, almost absently. “There’s too much snow,” he says.

“I think there’s some hot chocolate in the restaurant,” Yuuri says. “If you want any later.”

It’s bitterly cold, and Yuuri shivers even through all of the layers that he’d piled on before stepping outdoors. He can feel the way the cold bites down at him, and wonders how Viktor doesn’t seem to be affected by it all.

“That sounds nice.” Viktor smiles, and he turns to look at Yuuri.  

Moonlight spills onto Viktor’s face, his eyes glinting silver in it, and Yuuri wonders just how it is that he gets to stand here with Viktor like this, reveling in the night. It suddenly doesn’t feel so cold, with Viktor’s gaze intent on his face. Like just looking at him can somehow hold winter at bay.

“Why don’t you want album points, Viktor?” Yuuri asks, and it’s clear Viktor had been expecting the question, because his smile deepens.

“I’m glad you finally read the contract,” he says. It isn’t at all the answer Yuuri had wanted.

“I just— I don’t understand. If you want to be my producer, and produce my albums, why wouldn’t you want album points, too?”

“Because,” Viktor says, as he looks pointedly at Yuuri, “I don’t need the money.”

It hits Yuuri somewhere between his ribs, and he stares, as Viktor continues, “Yuuri, this is about you. This is your journey, not mine. I don’t care about making money off your album sales, when I’m already collecting commission off your gross, and when I have points on songs I write. I don’t need more points on top of that, especially on songs I don’t have any hand in contributing to.”

“But Viktor, I— I don’t think it’s _fair_ to you,” Yuuri says, the confusion evident in his voice. “You’re— you’re going to be financing everything. It doesn’t seem right that you’ll only make money off the mechanicals and performance from the songs you produce…If I never manage to chart… I could never possibly repay you. And the masters—”

“Yuuri,” Viktor interrupts, and his hands are suddenly a steady, heavy presence on Yuuri’s shoulders. Yuuri is struck silent, caught by the light in Viktor’s eyes. “I think you’re underestimating just how much you’re worth.”

“I don’t even know how I’m going to get a record deal,” Yuuri whispers. “I don’t know how I’m going to be able to do any of what you expect.” His words are misting in the space between them, rising towards the stars.  

“You don’t need a record deal,” Viktor says plainly. “You just need to chart.”

Yuuri stares at him, dumbstruck. “What?”

“Chance the Rapper didn’t need a record deal to chart,” Viktor explains. “He certainly didn’t need a record deal for the seven Grammy nominations he received, either.”

Yuuri was so caught up in the technicalities, in all of the rules the music industry has always held sacred, that he had entirely forgotten. Chance the Rapper had broken all of the rules, and he had done it all by himself, without a record deal or even a physical release. He had managed to chart on Billboard entirely through free streams, his last album debuting in the top ten without any real marketing.

It was completely unheard of, the way he had so completely disrupted the music industry.

The world’s most successful independent artist.

“You really don’t think I need a record label to back me?” Yuuri asks, wondering if Viktor expects him to go down the route Chance did.

“Eventually, you might need a label,” Viktor says, which is just what Yuuri expected. “But not until after you’ve won your first Grammy. By that time, you’ll get to pick who you really want to work with. You’ll have much more power to negotiate a deal of your own choosing. Or, maybe, you might even want to start your own imprint.”    

A quiet understanding starts to dawn upon him, like snow settling on a distant lake.

Is this what Viktor would have done, if he had the chance to start over? Being on a major label like Universal Music Group — it would mean that Viktor would have to pass all the music he wanted to release through wall after wall of gatekeepers, who would cut what they wanted, hold back his music, and determine the shape and structure of what he finally released.  

Yuuri can’t even imagine what that must have been like for someone like Viktor.

There must be so much unreleased music Viktor’s written, just sitting in the archives, collecting dust. “You don’t _need_ a record label to chart, or to tour, Yuuri,” Viktor insists, and Yuuri understands why, realization aching in him

“Okay,” he says, and Viktor looks almost pleasantly surprised, as though he had expected more of a fight. “We’ll do it your way, Viktor. I’ll sign the contract.”

Yuuri should be terribly cold by now, but he can barely feel the scrape of wind across exposed skin, or the snow swirling around their ankles. He looks at Viktor, and wonders if it has something to do with the smile, soft on his face.

“It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?” Viktor asks after a moment, his expression serene and quiet, as he turns his gaze up to the sky.

“Yes,” Yuuri breathes out. “It’s a beautiful night.”

Yuuri isn’t looking at the night.

He can’t look anywhere else, but at his dream, come to life, standing before him, bathed in moonlight

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Glossary**  
>     
>  _Boilerplate_ \- Standard template text that is or can be reused, without it being significantly changed from the original. 
> 
> _Label shopping_ \- Music managers, producers, and other industry insiders working with new talent will “shop” demos and recordings of their talent to record labels, to find the best record deal for their artist.
> 
>  _Billboard Hot 100_ \- Run by _Billboard_ , and also known as “Billboard 100,” the chart measures the performance of any song, in any genre, through radio play, streaming, and retail. The combination of all three determines a song’s performance. The Top 100 is a list of the top performing songs in the United States. 
> 
> _Repertoire_ \- Collection of music that a musician has written and/or performs 
> 
> _Sunset clause_ \- A clause in a contract that requires an artist to continue paying their manager, even years after the original contract’s termination. This allows the manager to be compensated for their time building up and working with the talent. Sunset clauses are sometimes bought out by larger management companies, when independently managed artists gain a high enough level of success. It is extremely rare for artists to be released from their sunset clauses, as most managers would want to protect their business interests. 
> 
> _Royalty_ \- Essentially, this works like a percentage commission in layman’s terms. See below for more details.
> 
>  _Points_ \- Percentage of royalties. It’s literally just another word for “percent.” (i.e. 3 points, instead of 3%). 
> 
> _Mechanicals_ \- Short for _“mechanical royalties.”_ These are royalties which are paid for every copy of any given song that is made or sold, which includes: CD, vinyl, digital download, streaming, and ring tone. 
> 
> _Performance royalty_ \- A royalty that is paid every time a song is played in public, which includes: radio play (satellite, terrestrial, and internet); performance in live venues; music used in television, film, commercials, games, etc. (this is also known as _”music synchronization”_ or just _“sync”/”synchronization”_ ); and streaming services such as Spotify, Pandora, YouTube, etc. 
> 
> _Masters_ \- Short for “master rights.” Essentially, this determines who actually owns the recording of any given song. 
> 
> _Imprint_ \- A sub-label or sub-division owned and/or operated by a record company. 
> 
> \-----
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! I really hoped you guys enjoyed this chapter, even though it moved slowly, plot-wise, and dealt heavily with contracts and technicalities and other things that might not be all that interesting. I grappled with whether I should have covered some of the technical legal issues of music publishing; it's one of the most important aspects of an artist's career, so I ended up deciding to go with it in the end. Hopefully, it isn't boring to you guys! 
> 
> I thought that it was important to cover some of these issues early on, and also work through a lot of Yuuri's initial shock and self-doubt, so that he would have more of the courage and determination we see in him, when he starts training with Viktor in the anime.
> 
> In the next chapter, the plot will probably pick up a little more, and most likely won't cover the course of just one day. ^^ 
> 
>  My sincerest thanks once more to my amazing editor for staying up till the sun was high in the sky to help me edit this chapter.
> 
> \----
> 
>   
>  **If you liked this fic, please leave kudos or share with your friends! Or leave a comment if you'd like to see more.**
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! You can find me on Tumblr at [subtextually.tumblr.com](http://subtextually.tumblr.com) if you'd like to chat! ^^


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited by [powerandpathos](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/powerandpathos)  
> 
> 
> **Disclaimer:** Some dialogue in this chapter is lifted directly from the anime and re-used for the purpose of the narrative, and belongs to Kubo-sensei. 
> 
> Please check out the end notes below for music terms used in the chapter! 
> 
> [Click to listen to Encore's OST](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLDn2XGRgVg3zg6cU-RlRCTEDnhhgaA8LW) \- New songs added!

Dawn rises like a distant dream across Haselton.

The first blush of day presses upon the clouds in a whisper-soft kiss of pink, spreading slowly across the horizon. Fingers of purples and golds bleed into the sky, peeking above rooftops glistening with snow. It’s slow and unhurried, the way it begins.

Yuuri watches the sunrise from his bedroom window, cocooned inside his blanket.

He hasn’t been able to sleep at all, every part of him buzzing with the impossibility of the previous day. He had been terrified that if he closed his eyes and let his mind rest, he would wake up and discover that none of it had ever happened — Viktor, the contract, all of it, a fool’s dream.

The contract signing was a quiet, understated affair.

Yuuri had simply returned to his room for his contract, and Viktor to his, and they met in the sitting room, where they each signed a copy in blue ink, with only Makkachin and Max to bear witness.

There was no grand celebration — no colorful banners; or hot, steaming bowls of katsudon; or a cake, decorated with words of congratulation. Yuuri hadn’t told anyone — not his parents, or Mari, and not even Phichit. This wasn’t a moment he felt ready to share yet, when it didn’t even feel real. When it felt like he was sleepwalking through a dream that somehow would not end. 

A dream that, inexplicably, featured a version of Viktor Nikiforov that Yuuri never anticipated.

“Yuuri,” Viktor said, fingers brushed under Yuuri’s chin again, tilting up his face gently. “Now that I’m your manager, I want to know everything there is to know about you.” They were sitting on the floor by the fire, petting Makkachin and drinking steaming cups of hot chocolate topped with clouds of whipped cream. Yuuri had turned towards Viktor, and the next thing he knew, Viktor’s fingers were framing his face again, a soft, delicate caress.

In the firelight, Viktor’s eyes shone amber, and he didn’t just look at Yuuri — he looked _into_ him.

All Yuuri could feel was the heat of Viktor’s fingers, slightly stained with blue ink from the contract, and the heat in his face, blooming bright and red. His heart was suddenly a wild thing in his chest, and he didn’t know why Viktor insisted on such closeness. Why he held his face with such tender interest.

“Where do you work on music? I didn’t see a piano in this inn,” Viktor continued. “Did you grow up here? What do you do for fun?” He shifted, impossibly, closer. “Do you have a lover?”

Yuuri didn’t know how he was supposed to even open his mouth and form words, when he could swear Viktor’s fingers had started _stroking_ him under the chin, and suddenly, Viktor was so _close._ Yuuri could see the tiny, fine lines at the corners of his eyes, could feel the humid fan of Viktor’s breath over his face. He could barely hear what Viktor was saying anymore — the rush of blood was too loud in his ears.

Was this the way Viktor acted with everyone behind the scenes? Was this who he really was, under that dazzling smile, and perfectly styled hair?  

“Before we start working together,” Viktor was saying, as the edge of his thumb accidentally brushed just under Yuuri’s lower lip, “let’s build trust in our relationship, first.”

Yuuri isn’t sure what happened next. One moment, he was sitting on the floor, with Viktor holding his face, and the next, he was halfway across the room, heart pounding, lungs gasping, every part of him on fire. He’d never felt anything like that in his life. Like Viktor had touched him, and sent a lightning bolt straight through the very core of him.

It scared him, the intensity of it. Like he was standing on that stage again.

Except this time, Viktor was looking at him.

The look in Viktor’s eyes, like Yuuri had somehow been torn from him by some strange, unseen force —  the confusion that had twisted his brow — it seemed so misplaced. Even now, as Yuuri watches the sun rise through the treetops, he can see it so clearly — a dark flash in Viktor’s sky. “Why are you running away?” Viktor had asked, and Yuuri didn’t know what to say.

He wished he knew how to open his mouth and say, I don’t know how to be close to you, when I’ve chased after you my whole life. When watching you, listening to you, was the best I thought I would ever have.

But Yuuri didn’t have the vocabulary to form the words. He just stared at Viktor, uttered a terrible excuse about it being past his bedtime, and ran away in a blind panic.

The sun bursts past the treeline, a spill of gold across the town, gleaming off the surfaces of snow.

Somehow, the dream still hasn’t ended.

Yuuri realizes that it’s only just begun.

 

 *

 

 

 

*

 

“Yuuri! Wake up. You need to come downstairs.”

Yuuri wakes slowly, squinting against the sharp brightness of sunlight filling up his room. Sleep presses upon him, makes his limbs and eyes heavy. He’s so warm, and so tired, and he doesn’t know why he needs to wake up. He had been dreaming about something wonderful. Something with silver hair and blue, blue eyes, and fingers hot like fire. There was a contract, and somehow, Viktor Nikiforov had magically appeared, right in the middle of his family’s restaurant, in a little town where nothing ever happens in winter, and declared that he wanted to manage and produce Yuuri.

Yuuri would very much like to return to the dream. He grumbles, loudly, an unintelligible sound, and burrows his face into his pillow.

“ _Yuuri!_ ”

“Mari-neesan…” Yuuri mumbles into his pillow. “Five more minutes.”

The sound of metal turns in a lock, and then Yuuri’s door slams open.

 Yuuri’s head emerges from his cocoon, and he squints, bleary-eyed, at the blurry figure of his sister.

“Yuuri,” she says, and he can hear a hint of impatience in her voice. “Are you really going to sleep the entire morning, and let Viktor deal with the media circus outside by himself?”

It’s like a slap of cold air. Yuuri is suddenly wide awake. He jolts up in his bed, blinking wildly against the light, as his hand scrambles for his glasses.

"Viktor?” he asks. “He’s still here?”

Reality slowly starts to settle. Yuuri is beginning to remember: _it isn’t a dream_.

“Where else would he be?” Mari asks, as though there is no better place Viktor could possibly be. “Get dressed, and come downstairs. Okaa-san’s kind of overwhelmed by everything, and she could use some help.”

Yuuri waits until Mari closes the door after her, before he scrambles up and rushes to his window.

“Oh my god,” he whispers, when he looks out and sees the throng of people milling about at the entrance of the inn, unable to gain access. They spill out down the walkway and all the way to the road, which is swollen with an overflow of vehicles, and — _oh god_ — fans. Those are definitely fans, Yuuri thinks, as he spots a group of girls on the street. They’re holding up posters emblazoned with Viktor’s name, Viktor’s face, and — Yuuri squints. Stares. His mouth drops in disbelief, when he realizes that one of the girls had made a poster that reads: **VIKTOR x YUURI 4EVER #VIKTUURI**.

 

*

 

 

*

 

On some level, Yuuri has always known that there would be a price to fame.  

He hadn’t expected that he would be paying it so soon, when the ink on his contract hasn’t even dried.  

He had known, the second that the camera flash went off in the restaurant, that the photograph of Viktor holding his face would attract attention; that the tweet Viktor had made shortly after they had signed the contract would lead to some level of media interest. Yuuri had expected an article, maybe two; maybe a few curious reporters. What he hadn’t been prepared for was the virality of it — how quickly it was all retweeted, reblogged, reposted by a public hungry for juicy gossip, and by a media that wanted to to sell a hot story about the world’s biggest pop star.  

“Viktor… what are we going to do?” Yuuri asks, looking out at the crowd that had somehow doubled in size since he woke. He had made his way to Viktor’s suite shortly after checking with Mari on what he could do to help, and was surprised by the size of Viktor’s security detail, which had gone from two guards to a team of eight. The other six had apparently arrived an hour earlier, while Yuuri was still asleep.

They had taken it upon themselves to close off all entrances into the building, except for the main door, where one of them took up residence to screen anyone attempting to gain entrance, and another one was tasked with the responsibility of walking Makkachin, because Viktor was unable to do so.  

Even when Yuuri’s cover of “Stay Close to Me” had gone viral, the media attention he had received hadn’t come anywhere close to _this_. Yuuri had been too nervous to check his phone or turn on the television, unsure if he wanted to know what they were all saying about him.  

“This is crazy,” Mari had said earlier, during the security meeting they had with their hospitality staff. “How do you expect us to be able to run our business if you’re shutting everything down like this?”  

“I assure you, Madam,” said Max, his English lightly accented with the sharp edges of Russian, “that if we do not take such precaution, your guests will find their stay…. _unpleasant_.” He glanced around the room. “I suppose you would not like for your inn to be overrun with screaming girls, yes?”  

Mari blanched slightly at those words, and Viktor had given her one of his blindingly perfect smiles. “Don’t worry!” he said. “This will be over before you know it. Think of it as free advertising.”  

While it was true that Yu-topia Restaurant and Inn suddenly had more business than they knew how to deal with, and the boom was something that pleased Yuuri’s parents, Yuuri didn’t like how disruptive it felt. He couldn’t even look out a window without knowing that somewhere in the crowd below was a photographer with a telephoto lens trained on him.

“If you keep worrying like that, you’ll end up developing wrinkles~” Viktor says lightly, and Yuuri wonders how it is that Viktor doesn’t seem worried at all. If anything, he seems downright unconcerned with the crowd outside. His security team had felt it necessary to create a press pit away from the main doors of the inn with bike racks rented from the nearby police station.

“This… all of this…” Yuuri says, haltingly, as he pulls the curtains shut. “Is it always like this?” He turns to look at Viktor, who is sitting on the couch with his phone in his hands, looking like something cut out of a magazine — perfectly put together, polished in a way Yuuri isn’t and doesn’t think he could ever be.  

Viktor’s eyes are startlingly blue when they look up at him, in quiet appraisal, and Yuuri feels suddenly a little out of place, stumbling upon a scene where he doesn’t belong. But the unreadable smoothness of Viktor’s expression transforms with the warmth of a smile, something that feels reassuring. Something warm.

“Sometimes it’s exactly like this,” Viktor says, as he rises from the couch, leaving his phone behind. He closes the space between them. “But, Yuuri, this is what it means to be recognized by the entire world. Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“No,” Yuuri admits, and Viktor’s brow quirks up slightly. “Not like this. I didn’t— I didn’t think it would be like this.”

Being recognized by the entire world isn’t something Yuuri had ever dreamt about. Even if he had wanted to share his music, his performance — the essence of who he truly was — he would have been happy simply knowing that someone, somewhere, wanted to listen to him. Wanted to see him perform.  

Yuuri wanted to be good enough, to have worked hard enough to have earned the right to stand on a stage next to Viktor; to feel his music come alive under his fingers. He hoped his art would be something that might bring joy to someone in the world, and wanted to move people with it.   

But he never dared to imagine a day when he might be recognized the same way as Viktor; that the recognition he had suddenly found heaped upon him wasn’t through his own efforts or through his own music, but through Viktor’s. The recognition he’s received isn’t really his own; he hadn’t done anything worthy of it, hasn’t _earned_ it the way Viktor had.  

I’m not really the one being recognized, Yuuri thinks to himself, the weight of the truth dragging him down into murky, uncertain waters. 

Viktor’s eyes are soft with understanding, and his hands fall onto Yuuri’s shoulders — a solid, anchoring weight. “I think I know just what you need,” he declares. “Let’s go to a studio.”

 

*

 

It didn’t seem like a terrible idea, when Viktor had suggested it. 

They could escape the chaos that continued to unfold outside, and slip into the safety of music. They might even create something together, something beautiful. Something Yuuri never thought he’d have the opportunity to do. And though he knew that Viktor becoming his producer meant that they would eventually write music together, Yuuri hadn’t expected that it would be so soon.

But, standing in front of the main doors of Yu-topia Restaurant and Inn, surrounded by a phalanx of four security guards, Yuuri suddenly isn’t sure if it’s the best idea, anymore. Maybe they should stay in the relative safety of the inn, behind closed doors.

He is completely unprepared for the blast of cold air that slams against him the moment the door opens, a wave of screams bursting forth as blinding flashbulbs explode in his eyes. Before Yuuri can attempt to retreat, he finds himself pushed forward by Max, forcibly ushered outside into the media storm, which greets him with a force strong enough to knock his breath right out of his chest.  

Yuuri is suddenly adrift within the swift current of a steadily moving river that threatens to drag him under its turbulent surface, the safety of his shores receding with each forward step.   

Between the shrill screaming of fans and the flashing of lights, Yuuri can barely breathe, can barely think, can hardly _see_ what’s right in front of him. He doesn’t know where he should put his eyes — if they should be trained on one of the security guard’s back, or the ground.

Beside him, Viktor is a calm, steady presence. He’s completely unaffected by the intensity of the screams, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses that sit upon the bridge of his nose. He lifts up a glove-clad hand to wave at the fans — some of whom are sobbing with happiness at their close proximity to him — a smile lighting up his entire face.  

This is the smile Viktor always gives his fans — the smile Yuuri has spent over ten years carrying inside of him, hoping that he might be able to see it again one day.

It’s utterly surreal, seeing it come to life, just inches away.

Prior to Viktor’s arrival in Haselton, Yuuri had only ever seen it once up close, over a decade ago. Minako had taken him to Fleet Pavilion in Boston to see Viktor while he was on tour, and his smile when he walked to his SUV after the show was just like the one now on his face.

It was cold that day in December, flurries of snow drifting from the dark sky above. Yuuri had clutched the barricade with a gloved hand, a poster carefully held in his other. His heart beat like a thousand drums in his chest, so loud, he was certain Viktor would be able to hear its rhythm from where he emerged from the back door of the venue, surrounded by his security detail, Yakov trailing just behind.

Yuuri wasn’t sure if he would have the opportunity to meet Viktor. He didn’t even know what he would say to him, if he did. He wanted to tell him how much Viktor inspired him; that he wanted to make music just like him; that Viktor’s music made him feel full and alive in a way Yuuri never knew possible, when he listened to it and watched Viktor perform live.

Viktor had paused to sign some autographs at the barricade, and Yuuri remembers now just how close he was. Remembers, too, the way he trembled, how embarrassing it was that he couldn’t find some way to stay steady and still and calm like Viktor always seemed to be, and the way Yuuri never was.  

Every time Yuuri stood on stage, every time he competed, he always had to fight the tremble that sat just under the surface of his skin, which threatened the dexterity of his fingers. He had to remember to slowly breathe, instead of taking gasping breaths; to focus on nothing but the music, and not on the way his hands wanted to shake.

With nothing to focus on but Viktor, standing right in front of him, Yuuri was a small, trembling thing with too-large glasses that slipped down the bridge of his nose, all breath and pounding blood and nervous energy that wrapped itself around his heart, too large, suddenly, for his chest.

Viktor cut an ethereal image in the night, silver hair tumbled all the way down his back. Though it was already late at night, dark glasses shielded the brilliance of his eyes, and so all Yuuri could focus on in the end was the brightness of his smile and the warmth of Viktor’s hand in his own.  

He cried for what felt like an eternity after, near hysterical with happiness, that he had gotten the opportunity to shake Viktor’s hand, and that Viktor actually signed his poster, taking the time to even draw a small cartoon poodle next to his autograph.

Is Yuuri supposed to look at fans, and wave to them, too? Is he supposed to smile, just like Viktor? Yuuri’s not even sure if he can feel his mouth right now, let alone figure out how to form it into the proper shape of a _smile_.  

It’s utterly unreal, how Viktor doesn’t seem to notice that they are standing in the center of a storm that threatens to sweep Yuuri away at any moment, the edges of the crowd around them seeming to shrink in every step they take deeper into the rush of it. He doesn’t know how Viktor can do this, how he can be so _calm_ when Yuuri can barely feel the ground beneath his feet. When all he can feel is the pressing of voices all around him, the closeness of the bodies just beyond, frantic and pulsing, hands reaching through the air, as though if they reach far enough, they might somehow be able to push past the barricades and the human wall of their security detail, and touch some part of Viktor or Yuuri.  

“Viktor! Yuuri!” the paparazzi call to them, their names an endless litany that rises in the air through the wall of screams on the opposite side of the walkway. “Look this way, please! Just one smile! Come on, turn this way!” 

“Viktor, is it true that you’re leaving your career to manage Yuuri?”  

“Yuuri, are you and Viktor an item?”

“Come on, smile!”

“Yuuri, look here!”

“Viktor!”

“Viktor, we saw the picture of you and Yuuri! Are you two dating?”   

Oh god, Yuuri thinks, horrified, as he looks at Viktor in shock, eyes wide and alarmed. _The picture._ They think that Viktor is _dating_ him because of the way Viktor had held his face in that photograph; that Viktor is leaving his career to manage him because he and Yuuri are somehow an _item_.  

The implication is terrible, and Yuuri shudders with it, every part of him seizing up.  

It’s not true, Yuuri wants say, and tries to form the words, tries to open his mouth to get them out. “It-It’s not—”

Before he can manage to get the sentence out, another paparazzi calls out, “Viktor, what do you see in Yuuri? Why did you decide to manage someone like _him?_ ” He spits out the last word, nastiness curling at the edges.  

Viktor suddenly stops, just a foot away from the open door of the Suburban, which had been idling at the curb.  

The smile is no longer on Viktor’s face, his expression carefully unreadable. The look he gives the paparazzi is cool and assessing, and Yuuri looks at him desperately, certain that Viktor is about to give him a piece of his mind. He’s sure that Viktor will tell him just how wrong he is about this all; that there is nothing going on between Yuuri and Viktor, and that he had chosen to manage Yuuri for strictly professional reasons. 

But like a light switch flicking on, Viktor’s suddenly face transforms once more with a blinding smile that Yuuri is certain doesn’t reach his eyes behind the safety of his sunglasses. And then, he says airily, “I suppose you can say I simply find Yuuri _irresistibly_ inspiring!”  

Yuuri’s face floods with heat, and he quickly turns away from the explosion of camera bulbs to duck into the vehicle, clambering into it with his heart exploding in his chest. 

Inspiring. Viktor finds him _inspiring_.

The thought is almost too much to bear.

Yuuri never thought that a day might come when _Viktor_ would be inspired by him. He’s not even entirely sure if it’s really true, or if it was something Viktor said for the sake of the story. Viktor’s publicity strategy has always been brilliantly executed, without a single scandal or misstep. Could it be that Viktor had only said it, because it would create a better image for Yuuri? Or did he really mean it?  

Yuuri doesn’t even know what there could be anything to be inspired by; he’s certain all Viktor has ever seen of him is a five minute video of Yuuri performing a cover of one of his songs. And yet, here he is, settling into the seat next to Yuuri, the door closing behind him like a curtain drop on the audience standing outside.   

Before Yuuri can ask Viktor if he really meant it, he’s suddenly startled by something warm and soft nuzzling at his hand, and looks down to discover Makkachin had already been in the car. One of the guards must have led her here ahead of them, and Yuuri hadn’t noticed, so caught up by the crowd.  

“Makkachin!” he says, warm astonishment filling his voice, as he gives the poodle a gentle scratch behind the ears. Makkachin’s tongue lolls out as she pants happily, and when Yuuri lets his hand slide down to scritch her under the chin, she licks his palm. 

“It looks like someone likes you,” Viktor’s voice breaks through. Yuuri glances up to find Viktor smiling at him, his mouth softer than it had been when it had been shaped into the perfectly executed smile earlier. He has taken off his sunglasses, and holds them now in one hand. “I’m jealous.”  

“Ah…” Yuuri laughs softly, a little awkwardly, as he slowly retracts his hand. “I’m sure Makkachin loves you the most, so you don’t have to be jealous.”

“Oh, but I’m not jealous of you, Yuuri,” Viktor says breathily, and with a twinkle in his eye, he adds, “I’m jealous of Makkachin.”

Viktor’s ebullient laughter fills the car when Yuuri’s face burns bright red, and he pointedly turns his face away from Viktor, determined to look out the window for the rest of the car ride.

 

*

 

Providence is stunningly picturesque in the snow.  

It is a city both old and new — narrow, colonial brick buildings with sloping roofs, heavy with snow, sit next to modern glass facades on tree-lined streets that are far too quiet for a state capitol. It is really more of a _town_ than it is a real city, outside of the tightly-wound streets of downtown; Westminster Street, a study of angles and tall concrete buildings that block out the sun.  

“Wow, this looks a lot like Boston,” Viktor had idly commented, as they drove through narrow, twisting roads bracketed in by red brick sidewalks, where the occasional pedestrian passed by, bundled up for the cold weather. 

Viktor’s tours had always taken him to larger cities; and with Boston only an hour away by car or train, it didn’t seem to make much sense for him to stage a show in a place that was more of a town than it was a city. 

As they drive up a hill filled with historic, colonial houses, the rhythm of traffic is muted by the sound of melting snow, dripping off rooftops. The buildings here are older, cut from a time of horse-drawn carriages and gentlemen in top hats thrown into a strange anachronistic style next to newer constructions from the past decade.

Here, the streets are heavily lined with trees, their branches drooping with snow across the road. In the spring, the trees are awash with pinks and whites that the wind carries through the sky and smears against windshields of cars parked on the street below.  

Yuuri looks out the black-tinted windows as they slowly make their way through the narrow snow-lined streets, passing by a towering arch cut out of white marble, where an eagle sits atop fallen flags, a pair of cherubs flying beneath its outstretched wings.  

“Wow! What is that?” Viktor asks, leaning past Yuuri to get a better look at the arch, through which they can make out an impressive igloo built next to a few misshapen snowmen on the snowy field beyond. 

“That’s Brown University,” Yuuri says. “We’re on its campus, technically.”

“Oh, really? I want to take a closer look!” Viktor leans past Yuuri to get the driver’s attention. “Hey, stop the car, I want to get out and walk around a bit.”  

Despite Yuuri’s initial objections, they end up walking Makkachin through the campus, filled with students rushing to and from class. Viktor marvels at the architecture of some of the older buildings, and takes plenty of pictures, as he walks with Yuuri and Makkachin through the snow-covered lower green, trailed by Max. A few students laugh as they sled down the hill, completely unaware of the presence of one of the world’s most acclaimed musicians standing just a few feet away.

“It’s very pretty here,” Viktor says, pausing by an impressive bronze statue of Marcus Aurelius astride a horse, looking up at it contemplatively. “You know, I _swear_ I’ve seen this statue before, somewhere…”  

“I think I read somewhere that some of Brown’s statues have copies,” Yuuri says as he watches Viktor pose for a selfie with the statue. “I might be wrong, but... I think this one’s original is somewhere in Rome or… maybe Paris?”

“Rome? Really?” Viktor’s eyes light up, and he’s suddenly very focused on the screen of his phone, flicking through old images. After a minute, he exclaims, “Wow! Amazing! You’re right, Yuuri!” On the screen that Viktor holds out to Yuuri is a picture of Viktor dressed in a red t-shirt and a pair of sunglasses, grinning before a mirror image of the statue, Makkachin’s happy face peering out from one corner. “This was in Rome,” he says and then proclaims that they _have_ to take a picture together.  

Before Yuuri can attempt to evade, he finds himself pressed alongside Viktor, Viktor’s arm around his shoulders, holding him in place.  

“Smile!” Viktor says, and Yuuri doesn’t know how he manages to succeed to arrange his mouth into the proper shape, when Viktor’s cheek is almost pressed right against his, and Yuuri wonders if Viktor can feel just how hot it is.  

They end up spending half an hour wandering through Brown’s campus, enjoying a level of anonymity that Yuuri simply hadn’t expected of college students. He had thought that the young women who hurried past them on the street without even sparing them a second glance should have recognized Viktor, in his designer trench coat and sunglasses and silver hair. But if they did, they either didn’t have time to stop, or they simply didn’t care.  

It was almost as though they didn’t see Viktor at all.

After what they had just experienced on the way here, Yuuri could hardly believe that they could simply walk together in public, without a spectacle. Every time he had seen Viktor in person or on television, Viktor was always surrounded by fans and media, who orbited around him like satellites constantly drawn in by the immenseness of his gravity.

Yuuri had simply assumed that Viktor couldn’t walk outside or go anywhere without someone taking notice. Even in his family’s restaurant, all of the phones had been out. 

“How do you deal with it?” he asks Viktor, as they walk back to the car. “With all of the… fame.”

“You get used to it,” Viktor says. “It’s something that you learn to live with, with time.”  

“I never actually thought about it… being famous,” Yuuri admits. “I just… I wanted to share my music and performance with the world. I didn’t really think about what came after.”  

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I think—” Yuuri pauses to consider for a moment.   

Fame for Yuuri had never been about him. It was a stage, too high for Yuuri to possibly reach, the lights blinding.  

Even when Yuuri competed on television, in front of a live audience of over thirty million people, it was never about becoming famous, or about growing his social media metrics the way other competitors and Celestino seemed to always be so concerned with. He was always more concerned with his actual performance, with writing new music, with his desire to record. He wanted to have a career in music, to stand in front of an audience and not tremble. He wanted to move someone the way Viktor moved him, even if he didn’t know if that was possible — if he could write the kind of music that people could feel.  

Fame, for Yuuri, was always about Viktor, and Viktor was something unattainable and inaccessible, entirely unknowable.

It was something Yuuri somehow thought he would only ever grasp at, but never hold.

“I think,” Yuuri says quietly, “that I just wanted to stand on a stage with you.”  

It didn’t actually matter where he did it, or if that stage was his own. It didn’t matter if the audience that swept ahead of them to the edge of the horizon, a sea of lights held in raised hands and waves of undulating voices washing over them, was there for Viktor. All Yuuri ever wanted was to stand next to Viktor, to know that Viktor wanted him there, too.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, his voice impossibly warm. His hand, in Yuuri’s, is a sudden shock, and Yuuri’s eyes spring up to Viktor’s face, unable to see what he holds in his gaze behind the black shades. “You already are.”

 

*

 

The studio they find themselves in is housed in a nondescript stone building that looks more like a residential home than it does a place of business. It boasts rounded arch windows that can be looked out of, but not into, and high, narrow roofs, the front garden immaculately manicured, even in the snow.  

If it weren’t for the small sign that reads “Fox Point Studios” on the door, Yuuri never would have known that there was a recording studio inside. The studios Yuuri had recorded in were always housed in large, modern, square buildings, nestled amongst office buildings and small businesses. This was something else entirely.

The studio owner, a balding, portly man had greeted them personally, and gave them a tour of the facilities, emphasizing that if there was anything Viktor needed — _anything at all_ — to not hesitate to call. Here was his phone number, and his assistant would be right on hand at the reception desk. If they required catering, he could recommend approximately fifty different restaurants — of note, there was a steakhouse downtown that delivered; a pizza place on Brown’s campus that made vegan pizza; and a little place down the street that made the best cupcakes and crepes in all of Rhode Island.

Viktor was graciously polite, his smile permanently etched onto his face, but Yuuri was starting to see the difference in his posture, in the way he conducted himself around other people. Viktor carried himself differently in public, his limbs settling into a perfect configuration — spine straight, shoulders held back, chin raised. He became something different, all polish and so much shine, Yuuri couldn’t see under his surface.

It had only been a day since Viktor found his way into Yuuri’s life, but already, Yuuri could see that this version of Viktor was not who Viktor Nikiforov was at all. This Viktor was a carefully staged performance of strategic smiles and all the right words. This Viktor didn’t try to desperately insist that he was only joking, in an attempt to get Yuuri to pay attention to him again in the car, his lips comically turned down in something of a pout that Yuuri could see reflected in the glass of his window. This Viktor hadn’t knocked on Yuuri’s door last night, after Yuuri had run away from him — because it was past his bedtime! — and suggested that they should sleep _together_ , because he wanted to understand Yuuri better. Because he wanted to be a better producer. 

(Yuuri’s mind reeled, his “No!” coming out scratchy and high in his throat. Yuuri’s heart hadn’t stopped pounding at the thought until he heard Viktor’s footsteps padding away down the hall.)

Yuuri couldn’t imagine this version of Viktor ever suggesting something like that, and though the thought of sleeping in the same room as Viktor was a terrifying prospect, somehow, he finds himself preferring the version of himself that Viktor doesn’t show anyone else. The one that had held Yuuri’s chin with warm, steady fingers, as his eyes held the light of a slowly flickering fire.

It’s the Viktor that sits next to him now, sharing a bench before a Yamaha grand piano which takes up the entirety of the studio space.

“Tell me, Yuuri,” Viktor says, as his fingers sweep across the keys, casually finding their way into the middle of a Chopin nocturne, as though he had been playing it all along, and the music was just waiting to emerge from under his fingers. “What do you want to do with your music? Why do you write?”   

The initial measures of the nocturne becomes improvisational, segueing into something reminiscent of smoky jazz clubs, and Yuuri considers Viktor’s question, as he thinks of the music he’s written throughout the years. Most of them were instrumental arrangements, better suited for a soundtrack than pop records; many of them were ballads, slow and sweet and filled with longing of unfulfilled desires. He always thought there was something lacking about the music he wrote; like he was only ever succeeding at some kind of poor imitation of what the song attempted to achieve — especially when the music was fast and intense and dark with rolling sensuality that Yuuri knew how to write but never was sure how to actually perform.  

“I think I just want to tell stories,” Yuuri says, a little uncertainly. It feels like the right thing to say, like maybe what Viktor would want to hear. Saying that he wants to tell stories in his music is a little easier than explaining that he wants to write for the sake of writing, to be able to hear something wonderful come to life, resonating off the walls and in his ears. It’s easier than explaining that music sometimes springs forth from him unbidden, when he’s driving, or in the shower, or making breakfast — a melody finding its way into his heart, growing larger and louder until Yuuri _has_ to sit down and let it out. Sometimes, it’s all he can hear — the music inside of him, a cacophony of sound that knows no end.

Viktor stops playing, and Yuuri realizes that Viktor had been looking at him all this time, instead of down at his fingers, which Yuuri had been staring at.  

“Yuuri,” Viktor says very calmly, but something in his tone makes Yuuri’s heart sink. “If I am to be your producer, I have only one condition — always be honest with me.”  

Yuuri cringes, flushing hot and red, as he ducks his head guiltily, drawing his eyes away from Viktor’s gaze which burns right through him. “I’m sorry. I guess, I just don’t really know what you want to hear.”

“It isn’t about what I want to hear. It’s about what you really feel.”

“But I don’t know how to explain what I feel,” Yuuri says, bewildered. 

How do you put into words something that has no vocabulary, which feels more alive than life itself? How do you create a vernacular for the way music thrums through the blood and into the lungs, pushing up to the throat and out of your mouth, until all you can hear is the sound of your voice, and the music that explodes forth from the universe you hold within yourself? How do you describe the depths to which you find yourself falling, in the darkest, most mournful descents, and the impossible heights you can achieve in the brightest, most hopeful of melodies? 

A feeling like that is impossible to capture, to speak aloud, and Yuuri doesn’t know how Viktor could want him to put it into words.  

“You don’t have to say anything at all,” Viktor says. Yuuri blinks, looking up at Viktor, confused. Viktor gestures at the keys, chin lifting slightly. “Show me.”

Yuuri’s eyes move from Viktor’s face down to the keys, and back up again.  

“You want me to play… right now?”

Viktor grins. “Yup!”

“What—what should I play?”  

“Anything you want, Yuuri.”

Yuuri hesitates, suddenly uncertain. He hadn’t expected Viktor to give him such free reign with his music. Wasn’t the whole point of Viktor becoming his producer so that Viktor would guide him, give him the proper structure he needed? What if he played something that Viktor _hated_? Would that mean Viktor wouldn’t want to work with him anymore?

Yuuri swallows nervously, past the sudden constriction in his throat, as he settles his fingers on the keys, and considers all of the music he’s ever written, trying to figure out the right song. Maybe a ballad would be good, as that would be closest to what Viktor had seen him play — something similar to “Stay Close to Me,” set in a minor key— or, no, maybe that wouldn’t be right at all. Does Viktor want to hear something uplifting, right now?  

Yuuri doesn’t realize his fingers are trembling, or how much time had passed with him staring helplessly at the keys, until Viktor’s fingers suddenly close around his left hand.

“Yuuri,” he says, his voice immeasurably soft. “You’re thinking too much,” he says, and Yuuri feels immediately chastised. “I think I have a better idea.” Yuuri watches as Viktor’s fingers settle into a C major chord configuration.

Yuuri wonders if maybe Viktor intends to play a theme that he wants Yuuri to take over. But instead, the familiar bass line of “Heart and Soul” rings out through the studio, and Viktor’s mouth blossoms with a wide grin, something playful and teasing at the corners of his mouth and settling into the fine lines around his eyes.   

Yuuri stares. Of all the songs Viktor could play, Yuuri certainly hadn’t expected that Viktor would perform something Yuuri had spent hours playing when he was seven years old, sitting in the dusty back room of a record store with Yuuko. It was how Yuuri had first learned to improvise, before he even knew what improvisation was — by playing the treble line, rearranging and resequencing the melody as Yuuko played the steady bass line.

Viktor couldn’t possibly be serious about this, Yuuri thinks, as Viktor’s fingers reach the bottom of the first measure and travel back up to start all over again. This has to be some kind of silly joke — something to break the ice, to make Yuuri feel a little less nervous about the prospect of performing before Viktor. Anytime now, Yuuri’s certain Viktor will stop, and tell Yuuri that it’s not difficult to play, even if it’s something silly like this.  

“Yuuuri~” Viktor sings, his grin stretching even wider, as he turns his bright eyes onto Yuuri. “Aren’t you going to play with me?” 

He’s serious, Yuuri realizes, and his eyes widen slightly behind his glasses as he flushes. Quickly, he lets his right hand find its way onto the keys, somehow eking out the main melody, which falls into rhythm with Viktor’s bass line.  

Of all the songs Yuuri had imagined performing with Viktor, “Heart and Soul” was probably the very last one. He never imagined that there would be a day when he would find himself sitting next to Viktor Nikiforov in a professional recording studio, playing the main melody of a song he had learnt when he had first started out in piano; a song so simple, even a novice with no piano experience could play, so long as they were shown where to put their fingers. He had imagined something far grander, more complex — filled with all of the technical difficulty and challenges of classical music, and the wild, improvisational madness of jazz.

And yet, here they are, and it’s not nearly as terrifying as Yuuri had thought it would be — performing next to Viktor, performing _with_ him. He had thought that it would have been some kind of insurmountable task; that performing with Viktor would have meant he would have had to practice until the keys were covered with sweat; until his muscles ached with the music, and the notes sedimented so deep within his bones, every step he took would have reverberated with the memory of it.  

But this is simple.  

Effortless, really.  

It doesn’t require hard work or hours of practice, just fingers springing music forth and letting it soar. Fingers that travel with warmth bubbling up inside of Yuuri’s chest, as the rhythm of Viktor’s bassline turns into something jazzier, sexier, chords segueing into triplets that echo throughout the studio, daring Yuuri to slide his left hand onto the keys. Giving him courage to let his fingers take flight. The melody transforms into something new — bright and wonderful and full of breathless wonder, like the way Yuuri feels whenever he thinks about Viktor.  

It’s as easy as breathing, the way they play together, the breaths of their music rising and falling in perfect unison.  

Yuuri doesn’t ever want it to end.  

Something in Viktor’s smile makes Yuuri think Viktor doesn’t want it to end, either.

 

*

 

“Viktor?” 

“Hmm?”

“How did you get into music?”

They had played for so many hours that by the time they emerged from the windowless studio in search of food, it was already dark. It wasn’t until Yuuri’s stomach started to make strange noises in the middle of a Tchaikovsky concerto that he was attempting to transpose into some kind of hilariously overdetermined love song, accompanied by Yuuri’s hysterical laughter brought on by Viktor’s improvisational, overwrought dancing around the piano, that they realized how hungry they both were.

Over burgers and fries and tall glasses of coffee milk, Yuuri found himself shamelessly studying Viktor as he scarfed down his burger. Viktor was not at all the fastidious eater Yuuri had thought he would be; he took huge bites of food, and condiments smeared over his chin. Grease and burger juice dripped down his fingers, and he had a habit of speaking around bites of food.  

The time they had spent at the studio had transformed Viktor from the immaculately dressed, perfectly polished picture he had presented to the world into something else — something with silver hair that was slightly tousled from all the dancing around the studio, whose carefully pressed shirt had developed quite a lot of wrinkles, and who apparently didn’t care that there was a glob of ketchup at the corner of his mouth.

He licked at it with his tongue, before swiping it away with the pad of his thumb. Thoughtlessly, he sucked it away, and all Yuuri could do was stare and try his best not to turn the same shade as the ketchup.

He watched as Viktor took a sip of his drink, and ended up with a thin film of the beverage on his upper lip. And then, the tip of his tongue slid over his lip, leaving it glistening.  

Yuuri forced his gaze down, heart thudding in his chest. He decided to busy himself with his own drink.

“It’s good, right?” he asked.  

“I’m naturally suspicious of all things,” said Viktor, and Yuuri gave him a dubious look.

“I...somehow doubt that.”

Viktor grinned. “You know me so well, Yuuri! And yes, you’re right. It’s good. Thank you. I’m having so many wonderful new experiences today, because of you.”  

Yuuri flushed, and immediately changed the subject.   

They began talking about improvisation, how some of the best music in the world emerges by improvising on earlier themes, sometimes even sampling parts of other songs.  

“Take ‘Uptown Funk,’ for example,” Viktor said, as he bit off half of a french fry. “That record not only had samples, but it also used interpolations from another artist, and _still_ won a Grammy.”  

“You never use samples in your music,” Yuuri said, as he sipped on his coffee milk.  

“What makes you think that?” Viktor asked with a raised eyebrow, and Yuuri blinked, surprised. He had thought that Viktor’s music was always completely original; that he never sampled anyone else’s music because he didn’t need to. “Plenty of my songs have samples; I just use them in a way that isn’t necessarily very noticeable, to add depth or atmosphere.”  

Yuuri sat straight up and put his drink down on the table. “Wait— Which of your songs have samples?” There must have been something a little too breathless and excited about the way he said it, because Viktor just looked at him and laughed, and then told him.  

“Just about everyone samples, Yuuri,” said Viktor around the last of his fries. “There’s nothing wrong with sampling, or with improvising on other music. Some of my top records were created because I was just messing around in the studio, playing other people’s songs. Eventually, those songs sometimes transformed into something else, and before I knew it, I had something new.”  

Yuuri blinked. Wasn’t that the way his own songwriting process went, sometimes? Yuuri had always thought that it wasn’t original enough; something that wasn’t new, that wasn’t his. But here was Viktor, echoing everything Yuuri had known and rejected. Saying that he did it too.  

It blew his mind. 

“The only thing that you have to worry about with sampling is if you ever want to sync the track,” Viktor was saying as he worked on his coffee milk. “Music supes will have to clear all the samples, which can be really annoying sometimes, if the sample you used isn’t already pre-cleared. That can cause major issues with the sync, so always make sure, if you sample, that you either use something that’s either pre-cleared, or you get it cleared by every single one of the rights owners. You don’t want to end up like The Verve.”  

“The Verve?” 

“Oh, yeah,” Viktor said, as he took a sip of his drink. “They were this British band that wrote this song back in the nineties called ‘Bitter Sweet Symphony.’ It got synched in the movie, _Cruel Intentions_. Have you ever seen it?” Yuuri hadn’t. “Well, the record ended up getting synched as the theme song for the movie, but the music supe didn’t check to see if the samples they used were completely pre-cleared. Turns out, The Verve had sampled the Rolling Stones…”

Yuuri could guess where Viktor was going with this. He had studied a few lawsuits in college; music that used samples without permission or clearance from the original songwriters could lead to lawsuits. Sometimes, if the usage was severe enough, it could lead to severe ramifications for the sampler.

“It turns out, they only got a license from the Stones’ label, and hadn’t actually gotten permission from the rights owner. At the time, the record they had sampled was actually owned by the Stones’ old manager. He actually sued them to kingdom come, and fighting the lawsuit was costing them so much money, that they ended up giving up one hundred percent of their rights to their biggest record.” Viktor set his empty glass down on the table. “It even was nominated for a Grammy, and Keith Richards and Mick Jagger were credited, even though they didn’t write the song.”  

“How big was the sample that was used?” Yuuri asked, stunned.  

“It was only six notes,” Viktor said, eyes glinting with something sharp that settled at the pit of Yuuri’s stomach.  

“Six notes,” Yuuri whispered, aghast.  

“Six notes,” Viktor repeated, and then, they sat in silence for a little while, with only the sound of the gas heater turning on filling the space between them and the rustling of wax paper, as Viktor closed his take-out box and started to clean up.

Yuuri understood the lesson Viktor was trying to teach him — that while it was acceptable, even encouraged, to improvise upon pre-existing music and sample, there were sometimes limits to what you could do with it; sometimes, it was dangerous, if you weren’t careful. Sometimes, like The Verve, you lost everything.  

Even though, it was just what he had expected, Yuuri was amazed at the depth of knowledge that Viktor possessed. Viktor had spent half his life as one of the world’s most renowned musicians; it wasn’t surprising that he would know far more about the complexities of the music industry than Yuuri.  

Everything Yuuri knew about the industry was far more superficial, barely skimming below the tinsel and lights. His own experience in it hadn’t nearly been deep enough for him to really understand just how complicated it could be, sometimes, and he was grateful that he had someone like Viktor who wanted to guide him through the dark, choppy waters.

It occurred to him then, that perhaps he knew more about Viktor than he did about the music industry. He knew his birthday and where he was born; he knew what kind of food Viktor liked to eat before a performance. He knew what kind of piano Viktor liked to perform on, and just how many different instruments he could play, and could correctly guess half of the components that comprised Viktor’s technical rider. But he didn’t know how Viktor had gotten into music, because it was something he never talked about in interviews.

Every time an interviewer tried to ask the question, Viktor would artfully misdirect, or give a vague answer, like the one he gave on the red carpet of last year’s _Grand Prix Elite_. “I suppose I just kind of fell into it,” he had said, with a wink and a smile. “Why?” he’d asked the reporter, head tilted. “How did you get into journalism?’

Now, there’s a hint of grease on Viktor’s chin and he looks relaxed and loose-limbed. And Yuuri, sitting across from Viktor, asks him the question he’s always wanted to know the answer to: _How did you get into music?_

He’s certain, whatever answer Viktor gives him, it’ll be nothing like the way Yuuri fell into it — accidentally, at Minako’s house, when he was four years old. His mother had taken him to visit, and Yuuri was in awe of the piano, the weight of the keys under his small hands. He smashed his fingers against them happily, amazed by the sounds that emerged every time he pressed on a key, like he was a small magician who could make sound appear at will, out of thin air. He was too young to understand that the noise he made was music, and that the music came out from the piano, but he loved it just the same, and soon, he was taking lessons with Minako.  

Three years later, there he was, sitting in the tenth row beside Minako in Carnegie Hall, watching Viktor play for the very first time.

Viktor looks at him now, a little bemused with the question, and Yuuri thinks that he might not actually give him a straight answer, with an expression like that. But then, Viktor says, “My mother played piano.”

Everything inside of Yuuri goes very quiet and still.

Viktor never talks about his family, or his personal life. No one seems to know anything about how he grew up — whether his parents were still alive; if he had any siblings, or if he was close with his family, or anything at all about him beyond the life he had built in music. It was one of the greatest pop culture mysteries — where Viktor Nikiforov really came from. He was born in St. Petersburg on Christmas Day, but had come to the United States at five years old; as far as anyone knew, he had spent most of his formative years between Los Angeles and St. Petersburg.  

His piano teacher, Sergei Siloti, reportedly the grandson of the man who had taught Rachmaninov piano, brought Viktor to competitions, and was always by his side. Some said that the teacher was more of a father to him than his actual father was.

But no one ever saw Viktor with his parents.

No one knew who they even were. 

Yuuri assumed that if Viktor never talked about them, then that meant they must not be in his life. He tried not to consider the possibility that maybe they weren’t alive; the thought of Viktor growing up alone, without any family or anywhere to call home, was incredibly painful. It was easier to think that they were somewhere, even though no one ever saw them. After all, Viktor was notorious for his complete refusal to talk about his personal life.

Yet, here he is, talking about his _mother._ And she played piano.

“When I was small,” Viktor was saying, “she used to play all the time. Music is probably my first memory.”

Yuuri tries his best to school any surprise that might have leaked into his expression.  

Viktor’s eyes have a faraway look in them, somewhere distant. Yuuri wonders where he went and what it is that he sees — maybe he’s somewhere across the ocean, with a woman that looks just like him, all delicate bones and fair skin and silver hair, playing piano late into the night.  

“I remember, when I was really young, and the piano tuner came.” Viktor’s voice, as he speaks, is filled with nostalgia. “We had an upright piano, so, when he took off the cover to get at the strings, I could see what was underneath, and I was interested by it. My mother told me that it was the piano’s heart. But mostly I remember being so confused that I couldn’t feel the piano’s heartbeat when I touched it.”  

Yuuri can see it so clearly, conjures up the image immediately — Viktor, four or five years old, his tiny hands splayed against the cool copper heart of the piano. He would have had to climb up on the bench to get at it. His face would have been twisted in confusion, befuddlement creasing a small, round face lit up by sunlight pouring through the windows.

“I remember asking my mother why I couldn’t feel the piano’s heartbeat the way I could feel my own,” Viktor continues, as he presses his hand against his chest, a wistful smile on his face. “And she told me it was because I wasn’t touching the right part of the piano, and then put my hands on the keys.” A breath of amusement leaves him, and his lips crack just enough for Yuuri to catch a glimpse of white teeth. “Well, let’s just say, I figured out what made the piano’s heart beat.”  

Music, for Viktor, is also something alive.

Yuuri hadn’t expected that. In all of his interviews, Viktor always talked about music as art that had a narrative. There was always a story to tell, new art to create with his performances. Viktor’s never referred to music as having a heart, seeing it the same way as Yuuri — as something that breathes.  

Yuuri feels like he’s been granted access to this tiny sliver of Viktor’s truth, like he’s standing in it with him.

“That’s wonderful,” Yuuri says, and Viktor startles, as though he hadn’t expected Yuuri’s voice to break through the distant look in his eyes. Maybe he had gone a little too far away, had forgotten where he was. Maybe, a part of him was still in Russia, with his hands pressed against the strings of the piano, his mother navigating his fingers to the right part.

Viktor’s eyes are as blue and sharp as the cold winter sky, and Yuuri is stunned for a moment by what he sees. Like Viktor had completely forgotten Yuuri was sitting across from him, and he’d just shared a part of himself that he hadn’t meant to let Yuuri see.

“I’ve never told anyone that before,” Viktor whispers, his voice a near rasp, but the ice in his expression gives way to slow warmth, and the way he’s looking at Yuuri makes Yuuri feel suddenly so exposed, like every part of him is being carefully studied and scrutinized. Like Viktor is seeing him — really seeing him — for the first time.

Yuuri’s features settle into a soft smile.  

It makes Yuuri feel like he’s been given this incredible privilege of trust, allowed to see something immensely private, unquestionably secret — what Viktor hides behind the many walls behind himself, under the polish, and the perfectly crafted smiles, and the careful answers that say everything and nothing all at once.

“Thank you for telling me, Viktor,” Yuuri says softly.

Maybe it’s just a trick of the light, or maybe it’s the heat from the radiator, but for a moment, Yuuri almost thinks he sees a flush of pink brushing over Viktor’s cheeks.

But Yuuri knows that Viktor never blushes at all. The man is simply incapable of it, no matter what kind of embarrassing questions or circumstances he finds himself facing on live television.

So that hint of pink on his cheeks — Yuuri’s quite sure.

It’s just his imagination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **GLOSSARY**
> 
> _Samples_ \- A recording used in another recording. _Sampling_ is when you use a sample.
> 
>  _Interpolation_ \- A replayed piece of music that sounds the same as the original, which helps to sometimes avoid copyright clearance. 
> 
> _Clearance_ \- The granting of rights to use part of a recording, usually given by the rights owners of a recording. Something that is _pre-cleared_ means the rights were already granted to the user; something that needs clearing means that the rights haven’t been granted yet. Sometimes, rights are granted for song usage, but not for something specific, like a synchronization license. (See below.) 
> 
> _Sync_ \- Short for _music synchronization_ ; describes the act of licensing music to be placed into film/television/games/ads/etc. 
> 
> _Music supe_ \- Short for _music supervisor_ : the individual(s) who is responsible for the placement of music in film/television/games/ads/etc.
> 
>  _Technical rider_ \- A list of technical specifications, such as instruments, equipment, lighting, staging, etc. that an artist needs for a live performance 
> 
> \----
> 
> I hope you guys liked this chapter, even though it, once again, only took place over the course of a day. I originally had a lot more planned, with more time passing, but there ended up being all of this character development that occurred instead with Yuuri and Viktor bonding and going to a studio together for the first time, so I ended up running out of space to do the other things I had originally planned, haha.
> 
> HOPEFULLY, the next chapter will have more plot development... I'm sorry this is moving so slow, but I hope you guys stick with it. ^^;;; 
> 
> I will do my best to make things move a bit faster in the next chapter, if possible. 
> 
> Also, yes, I drew the art in this fic! Please don't repost it anywhere or edit it. You can find it over at [my tumblr](http://subtextually.tumblr.com/tagged/my+art). I have another piece of Victuuri art that's up which is a WIP. ^^ I'll try to draw more art and incorporate it into this fic, if I can! 
> 
> In other news, I'm also working on a PWP one-shot from Viktor's point of view that will hopefully be released within the next week or two, so make sure to keep a look out for that! :D 
> 
> A huge thank you, as always, to my lovely editor, [powerandpathos](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/powerandpathos), who spent so much time helping me with this chapter even though she's very busy.
> 
> If you get a chance, [check out the Encore OST](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLDn2XGRgVg3zg6cU-RlRCTEDnhhgaA8LW)! I've added a whole bunch of new songs to the playlist for this chapter. ^^ 
> 
> \----
> 
> **If you liked this fic, please leave kudos or share with your friends! Or leave a comment if you'd like to see more.**
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! You can find me on Tumblr at [subtextually.tumblr.com](http://subtextually.tumblr.com) if you'd like to chat! ^^


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Edited by[powerandpathos](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/powerandpathos)**
> 
> _Encore_ now has cover art! [Check it out on here!!!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9083284/chapters/20654497)
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Some dialogue in this chapter is lifted directly from the anime and re-used for the purpose of the narrative, and belongs to Kubo-sensei.
> 
> [Click to listen to Encore's OST](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLDn2XGRgVg3zg6cU-RlRCTEDnhhgaA8LW) \- 4 new songs added!

There is something about the sky in Haselton that makes you feel small.

It has to do with the endlessness of it, the way it stretches its arms wide, like a lover waiting for an embrace after standing in the cold for too long. The sky here is open, and vast, and unobstructed by buildings scraping the bottom of heaven; glass glittering in the sun; lights blotting out the stars at night. It is clear and honest, without the tinge of brown that settles into the crevices and pores of Los Angeles — a smear against the horizon, the Hollywood sign a hazy outline at sunset.

Yuri Plisetsky scowls up at what he sees. The sky here is too honest, too inviting. It asks you to look up at it and stare forever without tram lines interrupting your vision, like in Russia. He hates this sky, and the little, white pieces of cloud that float through it, unassuming and uncaring about anything going on in the world below — not all that unlike the unassuming, uncaring, completely idiotic way Viktor Nikiforov had flown off a commercial set in Moscow and into the arms of a no-good, shit-for-talent, waste-of-time, shaped into the form of a chubby Japanese _loser_ , who couldn’t even make the top three in the _Grand Prix Voice._

Shit. What did Viktor even _see_ in him, anyway?

Yuri hadn’t counted on Viktor to actually care. He had been certain that Viktor would have seen the cover, and found it as overwrought and as uncreative as Yuri did. _Yuuri Katsuki._ The guy didn’t even have any _originality_ — it wasn’t like he had created a new arrangement, something that would have been worthy of Viktor’s notice. He’d just performed “Stay Close to Me,” and sure, it was a pretty good imitation, and he sang almost as well as he played. Some of the higher notes sounded maybe a little strained.

But the only reason why the video received as much media attention as it did wasn’t because of the quality of the performance — of this, Yuri is certain. Rather, it was simply because Yuuri had only just experienced a very publicly broadcasted defeat on live television. It had been a significantly large upset — Yuuri was originally favored by judges and industry alike to win. He should have _at least_ made the top three, and if he had, _maybe_ he might have been worthy of some kind of notice. Maybe, he might have actually _earned_ the time and attention and fame he’s suddenly found heaped upon him in great abundance.

But, Yuuri hasn’t done anything worthy of Viktor’s attention. And yet, his name is suddenly _everywhere_ , alongside Viktor’s.

It’s like he’s suddenly become the Hot New Thing that every single damn media outlet and blogger seems to want to write or talk about.

Yuri can’t check _any_ of his social media feeds without being accosted by images of Yuuri and Viktor together — sitting together at a cafe and laughing over hot, steaming cups of coffee; walking Makkachin along a cold, rocky shore and smiling, the salt and spray sending hair flying across their eyes; ducking into an SUV together, fucking _holding hands_. There was a question mark next to that headline, and maybe they weren’t really holding hands, but the image was still enough to make everything inside of Yuri _boil_.

While Viktor enjoys his little vacation away from reality, making gross, oogly eyes at Yuuri Katsuki across cups of coffee in quaint little New England cafés, Yuri has been waiting — sitting alone in an empty studio, sheet paper scattered about him like leaves in a fall storm. There were notes — endless black dots undulating in a sea of stark, black lines — but none of them were any good, and everything Yuri wrote felt empty and lost and lacking a certain _something_ that Yuri knew was Viktor.   

It’ll be fine, Yakov had said. He’ll come back once he gets bored.

Yuri believed him. His major label debut was coming up, and Viktor had made him a promise, three years ago.

Twelve years old and buzzing with the energy of a competition he’d won earlier in the day, Yuri had strolled into the dressing room like it was his name on the door. He flashed his all-access pass and marched past the looming shadow of the guard outside the door, the stylist that was arranging Viktor’s wardrobe on a garment rack, and the make-up artist gathering up her tools — and neatly deposited himself on the couch across from Viktor, who looked at him, amused, with an infuriatingly cool, blue gaze, across the rim of a white mug he held between his hands.

The room smelled faintly of jasmine, and vanilla, and hot lemon tea, sweetened with plenty of honey, that Viktor took a slow sip of, one eyebrow raised, and waited patiently for Yuri to say whatever brilliant thing was at the tip of his tongue.

“Yuri!” Yakov’s voice boomed across the room, before Yuri had the chance to open his mouth. He loomed behind him, and Yuri scrambled back up, a scowl twisting his face. “What do you think you’re doing, barging into Viktor’s dressing room?” Yakov came around the couch, and Yuri could tell that he had every intent of removing him from Viktor’s presence. “Vitya, I’m very sorry, he just—”

Viktor’s laughter was bright and airy. “Relax, Yakov, it’s perfectly fine. Yuri was just about to tell me that he won the Junior Nationals,” he said, as his gaze traveled back to Yuri. “Weren’t you, Yuri?”

Yuri blinked. He stared at Viktor for a moment, shock blowing his eyes wide. He hadn’t thought Viktor was even listening the last time Yuri had seen him — during a dinner break in the middle of concert rehearsals, half a year ago. Yuri had never been to a soundstage before, had never seen a stage quite so large up close. He tried not to let the awe on his face show, as he ate his dinner and listened to Yakov and Viktor talk about the tour.

“I’m rehearsing too,” Yuri had said, during a momentary lull in the conversation, and Viktor’s eyebrows rose. Yuri told him that he was planning to compete in the Junior National Piano Competition, and Viktor had given him a pleasant smile and asked him what piece he was planning to perform. Yuri was certain Viktor would have forgotten. But he _remembered_.

Yuri puffed his chest out and defiantly held the look Viktor gave him. “Yeah, I won,” he said, and Viktor smiled.

“Just winning a competition doesn’t mean you’ll get a record deal, Yura,” Yakov interjected, and Yuri glared in his direction.

“Yakov~” Vikor laughed, almost chiding. “You should praise him more!”

Yakov grumbled, and then settled heavily into the couch next to Yuri, but made no further objections as Viktor turned his attention back to Yuri.

“Yuri,” Viktor said, “I have confidence that if you keep working hard, you’ll get signed in no time.”

Yakov had taken Yuri on a year ago, after hearing about a young Russian boy who was dominating the classical circuits — one who reminded everyone of Viktor.

Yuri hadn’t minded the comparison. Viktor was the biggest star in the world, and the first Russian-American musician who had achieved world domination in a way no other artist of Russian descent ever had before. He broke through every single barrier he had found himself confronted with — no wall too high for him to climb, no challenge too impossible.

Yuri remembers watching him on television, when he was four, sitting on the floor before a low table with a plate of fresh, steaming pirozhki in front of him, his grandfather’s hand a comforting weight on his head. The camera zoomed in on Viktor’s bright, smiling face, a garland of roses sitting in hair that shone like moonlight.  

“Dedushka...who is that?” Yuri had asked, crumbs across his face, mouth filled with pirozhki, a greasy, stubby finger pointed at the screen.

“ _That_ , Yuratchka, is Viktor Nikiforov,” said his grandfather, something Yuri didn’t quite understand swelling in his voice. “He is the pride of Russia.”

Yuri didn’t really understand what it meant to be the “pride of Russia,” when he was four, but he liked the way it sounded in his grandfather’s voice. And he liked the look on his grandfather’s face, something that softened the lines around his eyes, and made Yuri feel warm. He wanted to be the pride of Russia, too, even though they didn’t live in Russia, but in America — in a small brick house just off Neptune Avenue, in Brighton Beach, New York.

Back then, Russia was far away — a fairy tale Yuri could only ever guess at in the weight of his grandfather’s hand as it pressed into his hair, and in the taste of his pirozhki. It was there, in the many stories he told Yuri when he tucked him into his small, creaky bed at night — Baba Yaga, hungry for fresh, young meat; a beautiful girl, who turned a beast into a prince with a kiss; and his favorite: the tale of the turnip that needed an entire village to pull out, the telling of it twisting around his grandfather’s tongue, leaving Yuri in peals of laughter.

Russia finally became something real that summer, when Yuri visited with his grandfather, and walked through the streets of St. Petersburg, where his parents were born, marveling at buildings splashed with color he’d never seen in America. There were canals that cut through the heart of the city; and the cry of the seagulls overhead reminded Yuri of Brighton Beach.

“Look, Dedushka! They’re like the ones at home,” he said, pointing up at the sky.

“Ah, but, Yuratchka, you _are_ home,” said his grandfather, and Yuri found himself quite confused, because home was a small brick house in America, and America was very far away.

As he grew up, Yuri began to understand what it meant — to live in a place that wasn’t home and could never really be, because Yuri was Russian, living in a country filled with people who would look at him differently the moment they found out his name. He had a family name no one could ever pronounce, and ate boiled cabbage, and soup as red as blood for lunch, and lived in Brighton Beach, where all the television shows and movies believed only Russian gangsters lived.

The Brighton Beach Yuri knew was not this thing of strange, dark alleys, and empty warehouses where drug or weapons or other illicit deals were staged. It was seagulls crying at night, and the smell of salt in the air from the sea; the bakery on the corner of the street that sold the freshest vatrushka and delicate, sweet zefir, shaped like clam shells, that melted in his mouth. There were the old men who played a game of chess that never ended at the park, where children played tag and cops and robbers and bounced basketballs off every surface. And yet, to everyone else, it was just a place filled with Russian gangsters — a place that could not really be considered fully _American_ without the presence of a hero-cop with a good, easy American name everyone could pronounce.

Yet, Viktor Nikiforov, who had a difficult-to-pronounce Russian name, and who wasn’t even born in America, somehow was able to overcome the challenge of living in a world where Yuri sometimes had to punch someone in the face for telling him to go back to Russia.

Viktor was the pride of Russia, but somehow, he was also the pride of America, too.

Yuri didn’t really understand how that worked; and he wasn’t even sure if he wanted to be the pride of an America that didn’t seem to want him in return, but with each year that passed, Yuri increasingly found himself wanting to trace the shape of Viktor’s footsteps. To follow him down the path Viktor had paved for all musicians who wanted recognition in a world where it was suddenly possible to dominate the American pop music charts, even if you had a Russian name that was difficult to pronounce, and people sometimes called you a red commie bastard.

Yuri decided to spend his time translating his anger into music, instead of into his fists. He swept competitions with a furious technical mastery that few young musicians demonstrated, and possessed a startling confidence that was rare for his age. When he wasn’t playing piano, Yuri sang until his throat was raw, and kept on singing, until he learned how to do it properly — from deep within himself, pushing the air from his belly, instead of his lungs, and the notes rang wonderfully clear. He insisted on dance classes, as well, and practiced until his body was so sore, he could barely move. Viktor knew how to dance, and could sing _as_ he danced, his movements elegant and precise, and somehow, his voice never went flat, even when he was in the midst of the most stunning choreography.   

Yuri wanted to one day surpass him, so he trained tirelessly, brutally carving out a name for himself until, one day, Yakov noticed him.

“You are the pride of this family, Yuratchka,” his grandfather had said, after signing the management contract as Yuri’s guardian, face glowing with pride. It filled him up as much as his grandfather’s hot, delicious pirozhki did, until he was near bursting with it, and his grandfather had laughed; his hand in Yuri’s hair was _everything._

Maybe, this was how his grandfather had felt, when he looked at Viktor on television, and declared him _the pride of Russia._

Yuri, at twelve, knew the importance of becoming the pride of Russia, and understood that you have to set aside your own pride if you ever want a shot at that title. Sometimes, you have to ask Viktor Nikiforov, backstage at one of his concerts, if he’ll produce your debut, because, you may only be twelve, but you already know what it means to have a name like Viktor Nikiforov attached to your own.

For a moment, it almost seemed as though Viktor wouldn’t agree, but then, he smiled, and said he would, and all Yuri had to do was secure a major label contract.

It took him three years, but Yuri eventually succeeded in putting together something worthy of Universal’s attention. It was a major label deal, a _real_ debut. Yuri could see it already — skyrocketing to the top of Billboard immediately, his name in lights on the marquee outside the Wiltern for everyone to see as they drove down Wilshire Boulevard.

Viktor was in Russia at the time, shooting commercials. Even over Facetime, Viktor’s excitement over Yuri’s contract finalization was palpable — bright and genuine and so unrestrained, that Yuri was certain that once Viktor came back to Los Angeles, they would immediately start working on his debut.  

Instead, Viktor booked himself a one-way trip to Rhode Island, and Yakov told Yuri not to worry. Give him a week — you’ll see, Yuratchka, he had said, but a week turned into two, and before Yuri knew it, an entire month had passed, and there was still no sign of Viktor.

Leave it to Viktor to completely forget that Yuri’s major label debut is coming up, and Viktor is _supposed_ to be in Los Angeles, working on Yuri’s first major record. Not out here, in a town where the sky is too vast and unknowable, where the closest _decent_ recording studio is four hours away, in New York City.

“God dammit,” Yuri curses lightly under his breath, glaring up at a large statue of a bear wrestling a giant lobster. “You’re gonna come home with me, Viktor,” he says to the lobster, and it’s a declaration of a war.

He just has to find Viktor first.

 

*

 

Some days, when Yuuri wakes up, he has to remind himself that he isn’t still dreaming.

That his life, the surrealness of it, is every bit as real and as bright as the smile that finds its way onto Viktor’s face each morning, whenever Yuuri finally manages to pull himself out of bed and into athletic clothing, so that they can begin their day with a vigorous training session at the gym.

“Good morning, Yuuri~!” Viktor greets him like he does each day, looking fresh and put together in a way Yuuri never is in the early mornings. He always seems to have some kind of beverage in his hand — a cup of coffee; a glass of green juice that Yuuri once tried and immediately regretted. There’s a glass of something brown and thick and kind of slimy-looking today, and Yuuri can only guess how disgusting it must taste, but Viktor’s sipping on it with the most _beatific_ smile on his face.

“Ugh,” Yuuri says in response, as he looks at the drink in some sort of strange horror, and Viktor laughs.

“ _Good morning, Viktor_ ,” Viktor corrects, amusement curling at the corners of his mouth, “not _ugh_.”

Yuuri flushes slightly, realizing, and ducks his head. “Ah. Sorry. Good morning, Viktor. I was just...” He trails off, staring at the drink in Viktor’s hand again. “What _is_ that?”

“It’s a protein shake!” Viktor says, and, with a knowing wink, he adds on, “I made you one, too.”

All of the blood drains from Yuuri’s face. “Oh, god. No.”

“Oh, _yes_.” Viktor’s grin is maddeningly dazzling, and there’s suddenly another glass filled with the thick, brown substance, which Viktor had picked up from the kitchen counter, and is now holding out for Yuuri to take.

Yuuri shakes his head no, eyes wide, as he considers his paths of escape, but before he can take a step back, Viktor has somehow managed to close the space between them, and presses the glass into his hand.

“Yuuri,” he says, in a tone Yuuri has come to recognize as Viktor’s _manager voice_. “Drink it. You’re going to need it. You’re doing crossfit, today.”

Yuuri sighs, shoulders slumping with defeat, as he stares down at hell in a glass.

He wasn’t sure what he had expected when Viktor had signed on as his manager and producer a month ago, but he certainly hadn’t expected this: Viktor making him protein shakes at six in the morning, before dragging him to the gym, where they train together for _hours_ , until Yuuri’s muscles shudder and ache with exhaustion. It’s as if Viktor is trying to pound the shape of him back into what it once was — to sculpt him back into the body Yuuri needs to inhabit, in order to make manifest every detail of his creative vision.

 

*

 

“Yuuri, have you given any thought about what you want to do with your music? About why you write?”

It was their fifth day together, and they had driven to Providence again, to escape the hive of media and fans that buzzed around Yu-topia Restaurant and Inn. Vikor had promised that, eventually, the interest would die down, and Yuuri would be able to freely walk through the streets of his hometown without being chased by cameras and fans — he just needed to be patient. Until then, they would rent studio time from Fox Point Studios, where they had spent the entire morning together, reviewing Yuuri’s old demos that he had made with Celestino in Los Angeles.

Viktor’s eyes had taken on the edge of steel, something sharp and biting cutting through his gaze, as he listened with a focused intensity Yuuri had never seen before on his face. This was a part of Viktor he did not share with the world; a part of Viktor Yuuri did not yet know. It carried the promise of something brutal in it, something as terrifying as it was awe-inspiring, and Yuuri did not know what it was he felt more.  

“Well?” Viktor asked, when Yuuri just stared at him, uncertain and scared and filled with a nervous energy that he hadn’t felt since the first time Viktor had asked the question.  

Yuuri was starting to acclimate to Viktor, of having him close enough to touch. Of being near him, listening to him talk, hearing him sing and play, playing music _with_ him. Watching him eat, watching him talk, simply watching him at all — it wasn’t easy, but Yuuri was getting used to it. To the idea of Viktor. Here, in the flesh. Real.

He was getting used to Viktor’s warm, easy smiles, and the way his hands constantly seemed to gravitate back to Yuuri, as though Yuuri was an instrument he _had_ to touch. His hands would fall on Yuuri’s shoulders; his upper arm; his lower back. They would brush against his fingers in the dark, as they sat next to each other in the car on the ride home; or against his knee while they sat on the piano bench together. It was as though Viktor was trying to learn him, through touch. To memorize the shape of him the way he’d memorized the positions of all eighty-eight keys of the piano.

But then, Viktor had listened to Yuuri’s old demos. And his eyes turned into something Yuuri didn’t think he could ever get used to. Something that felt dangerous, and incisive; something that looked at him and cut right into him where he was softest, vulnerable, and on show. Yuuri looked away, shifting uncomfortably in his chair, his eyes drifting to the waveform of his Pro Tools session on the screen next to Viktor.

Had he thought more about his music? What he wanted to do with it?  

“No,” Yuuri finally admitted after a moment.

“Why not?” Viktor asked with an inquisitive tilt of his head.

“I—I don’t know,” Yuuri stammered out, wondering if there was something in his music Viktor had heard that he didn’t like. He thought that Viktor had found the answer to his question the first time they were here, together. When they sat next to one another and played music for _hours_. “Viktor, didn’t I—I thought—”

“You never actually answered the question, did you?”

“You said I didn’t have to say anything at all,” Yuuri said, lost and confused all at once, as his eyes snapped back to Viktor, who was looking at him like there was something he was seeing that Yuuri couldn’t quite make out through the fog settled in his own eyes. “You said I could just show you.”

“But you didn’t show me.” Viktor’s voice was far too light. “If anything, I showed you something, instead.”

Viktor had shown Yuuri that making music with him, playing with him, didn’t have to be difficult. That it was as easy as breathing, letting himself go. That Yuuri didn’t have to be self-conscious about his music, or tremble with the impossibility of creating something immediately perfect; something that would not be disappointing. It could be wild and free, like the dissonance of jazz, and as long as he enjoyed it, let himself feel it — that was all that really mattered. And Yuuri had taken that lesson, and thought what he had played as a result of it was the answer to what Viktor was seeking.

But it wasn’t — not by a long shot.

Yuuri was responding to what Viktor was teaching, the response to his call, the treble to his bass line. But he hadn’t actually _shown_ Viktor what it was he wanted to do with his music; why he wanted to write.

“Yuuri,” Viktor said. “Until you know what it is you actually want to do with your music, and the direction you want to take it, I can’t produce anything for you.” It was like a clap of lightning, carving across Yuuri’s sky, the steady ground he thought he had been standing on suddenly turning into quicksand under his feet.

“But—Viktor, isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?” Yuuri asked, his voice trembling, as he stared at Viktor, aghast. “You’re—you’re my producer. Aren’t you supposed to—help me figure out the direction?”

“Oh, you mean, like your previous manager?” Viktor asked airily, and there it was — the edge of steel, coming down so swiftly, Yuuri felt the cut before he realized what had even happened. There was a smile on Viktor’s face, something perfectly shaped. It was the kind of smile Viktor wore for the cover of magazines and the posters Yuuri had hung on his bedroom walls, which made Viktor look devastatingly beautiful. But Yuuri had come to understand, in the short time he had known him, that it wasn’t really a smile at all.

Yuuri cringed, and looked away. “Up until now, my manager always chose the direction of my music for me…”

Viktor’s fingers were startling and warm as they wrapped their way around Yuuri’s fingers. Viktor had both of his hands in his own, and he’d pulled his chair close to Yuuri’s, so that their knees brushed. This close, his expression had softened once more, the smoothness of the smile sliding off his face as his eyes searched Yuuri’s.

“Do you know why I really wanted to become your manager and producer?” Viktor asked quietly, as though he was about to tell Yuuri a secret he didn’t want anyone else to know. “When I saw you perform, you weren’t just playing a cover. You were making music with your entire _being._ I could feel it — what you were trying to express with every part of your soul. I knew that if I became your producer, we would create something incredible together. Something no one’s ever done before. Something only I can do.”

Yuuri was stunned, and blinked at Viktor with his mouth hanging slightly open. Viktor had told him, the first day they had met, that he knew Yuuri could win the _Grand Prix Elite_ because he was the only person in the world, besides Viktor, who had captured the true essence of “Stay Close to Me.” But Yuuri never expected Viktor would say something like this — that he could feel what Yuuri felt, in the deepest part of him. The darkest, most vulnerable part.

“I need you to trust your own instincts,” Viktor said softly, squeezing Yuuri’s hands. “You need to think about what it is you really want to do with your music, and what kind of creative vision you want to show in your performance. What is it that you want to achieve? Until you figure that out, I won’t produce any new music for you. We can work on your basics and some covers, maybe create some beats together, but you need to spend some time thinking about this, first.”

 

*

 

Viktor’s ultimatum reverberated through Yuuri’s entire being.

It was all he could think about in the days that followed — what it was he really wanted to do with his music, something that he’d never had the freedom to really think about or consider before. There was always someone else who told him what his music would be — Minako, choosing all the pieces with which he’d compete; Celestino, dictating the kind of music he needed for his repertoire. He’d never had this kind of freedom to choose the direction of his music, to determine what he wanted it to _do_.

He thought about Viktor’s music, and what it did — how it made him feel. How, when he listened to it, played it, felt it under his fingers, and in his body, heard it in his ears, beating through his chest, it was like the very first wave of the ocean meeting the shore, pulled by an endless tide it never knew it held. He let himself drown in it; opened up his mouth and swallowed it down, until it was all that filled him. There was a new world that stretched wide within him, far beyond what his own eyes could see and what his fingers could touch.

Was that what Viktor had wanted to do with his music? Did he want it to be something that could remake someone with just one listen? Was that what he meant, when he told Yuuri that he needed to consider what it was he wanted to do with it?

It was easier to think about music as something Yuuri performed, something that he felt. Something that happened to him, or because of him, instead of something that carried out a grand plan Yuuri had set into motion — like he was God, molding mountains and carving out oceans and the stars. Forming life out of clay, making history with his hands. Music was a thing that was always already there, from before Yuuri could even think it into being. It was alive before Yuuri could even conceive of what it was — a single note, a melody, a feeling he carried in his bones but didn’t have the words to say.

It moved and breathed on its own, without Yuuri telling it what to do.  

He didn’t shape it into being, he simply translated what was already there, living inside of him.

How was he supposed to make it _do_ anything at all, when it came out of him fully formed?

“I don’t know what to do,” he told Phichit on the phone, after he had spent half a week agonizing about the fact that he didn’t know what Viktor wanted to hear. “He wants me to tell him what I want my music to _do_ , and he says he won’t write anything for me until I figure that out. But—Phichit— I don’t really think about that when I’m writing it. It just…It’s just—”

“Already there?”  

“Yeah.”

“So why don’t you just tell him that?”

“Because—I don’t think that’s what he wants to hear!” Yuuri clutched at the phone as he pressed himself into the corner his headboard made with the wall. “If I can’t figure this out, he’s never going to write anything, and he’s going to _quit_ , and everyone’s going to think he’s so _stupid_ for wasting all this time on me—” Shit. He was crying.

“Yuuri—”

“—and he’s going to hate me, because he’ll realize that I’m not actually as talented as he thinks—”

“ _Yuuri,_ I don’t think—”

“—and I just—”

Phichit sighed very loudly. “Will you just— _stop talking_ and listen for a moment?”

Yuuri blinked, tears streaking down his face, sniffing loudly.

“Why do you love music so much?” Phichit asked, and it wasn’t what Yuuri expected. “Why did you want to go into it as a career? Why did you major in it, instead of—I don’t know, business, or something? Why music?”

“Because—” Yuuri paused as he thought about it for a moment. He could have chosen another path, one that was far easier to walk on than music. One with more stability, which wasn’t marked by such delirious highs and crushing lows. He could have taken the road his parents had wanted him to walk down his entire life, but instead, Yuuri ran towards the only thing that ever really made him feel like he was fully alive. “Because it’s the only thing that makes me feel like…”

“Like?”

“Like I’m really alive.” He needed it as much as he needed air — music, filling him up inside.

There was a long beat of silence, but it felt warm. Like Phichit was there with him, an arm around his shoulders, a reassuring smile on his face. “So, tell him that, Yuuri.”

“But—But that still doesn’t answer the question of what I want my music to _do_.”

“It makes you feel alive, doesn’t it? Isn’t that doing something?”

It couldn’t be that easy. Viktor wasn’t asking Yuuri what music did to him. He was asking Yuuri what he wanted to do with it. “I don’t think that’s what he’s asking. He—he said I need to figure out my creative vision, and what it is I want to achieve.”

“What _do_ you want to achieve? Why did you even compete in the _Grand Prix Voice_ last year?”

“Well—that’s because—I wanted a record deal,” Yuuri said, wiping at his eyes under his glasses.

“But _why_ did you want a record deal? You could have just gone into teaching music, or even production.” Phichit pointed out what Yuuri already knew — that there were countless paths within music he could have walked down, but Yuuri had chosen the most difficult one. “Why did you want to become a recording artist in the first place?”

Yuuri saw the stage again, stretching across his horizon. He saw Viktor standing beside him, his smile brighter than the lights that illuminated the stage. You did it, his eyes seemed to say as they looked down at Yuuri. You earned this. You belong here.

“Because—I just—I wanted to be good enough,” Yuuri said, hoarsely, “so that I could stand on a stage next to Viktor, one day.”

“Then… doesn’t that mean you wanted to be as successful as Viktor?”  

“No. I don’t think that’s what it’s really about.”

“Then what is it about, if not that?”

“I think—” Yuuri said, realization slowly settling upon him like drops of dew. “I think it’s just about… earning the right to stand next to him.”

Phichit was quiet for a moment, and when he next spoke, there was something careful in his words. “Yuuri, aren’t you already standing next to him? Is there really a difference between earning the right to stand next to him on stage and being as successful as him? Don’t you work as hard as you do _because_ you want to be able to do what Viktor does?”

Yuuri hadn’t considered it — what it really meant to stand next to Viktor on a stage he had earned, a stage where he belonged. A stage that was as much his own, as it was Viktor’s. It wasn’t just about standing next to him, because he was already doing that every day. Maybe it was about the stage, and what stood beyond it. Maybe it was about the crowd, whose voices would feel more like an embrace than a tidal wave that wanted to see him drown.

“I think—” Yuuri said slowly, speaking aloud for the first time what he’s always felt, but has never dared to say, “I think I want to move people, the way Viktor moves me. I think… I want people to feel like… like my music is something alive.” _Something that breathes._

Yuuri couldn’t see it, but he could feel it — the smile on Phichit’s face, in the beat of silence that tremors between them for a moment. “So, tell him that.”

 

*

 

Yuuri found Viktor outside on the back porch, watching Makkachin tumble through the snow.

The sun was setting in the distance, clouds purpling with the bruised remnants of the day, as the moon chased the sun down the horizon. Veins of gold threaded through the haze of pink in the sky, leaving Viktor haloed in soft light.  

“I was thinking about what you said,” Yuuri was saying, as he stood next to Viktor and watched the slow fall of night. “About my music.” Like this, it was somehow a little easier to talk to Viktor, when he didn’t have to look at him and see whatever it was he held in his gaze. He could feel Viktor’s gaze washing over him, watching him as Yuuri watched Makkachin roll around in the snow, barking happily.

“Did you figure it out?”

Yuuri’s shoulders slumped a little, and he let out a breath that formed a small cloud before his face. “I don’t know if this is what you really want to hear, but… I don’t think I want to make my music _do_ anything. Music… for me… is already doing something on its own. It’s… It’s alive, you know?” He knew Viktor could understand that much. Remembered how Viktor told him about the heartbeat he searched for, when he was young. “I just… I want people to be moved by it. I want them to feel like…like it’s living, too.” Yuuri finished this with a rush of breath, and then he looked at Viktor. “I want my music to do for people what yours did for me.”

In the fading light of day, Viktor’s expression was quiet and thoughtful, and there was something faint, brushing at the curve of his mouth.

“I want to be as successful as you one day, Viktor,” Yuuri finally said, and it was like a spark, igniting inside of his chest. The fire roared forth, flickering up in his eyes, and he took a step forward, fist clenched with determination. He was burning with something he didn’t even know he had inside himself. Something that felt wild and courageous and everything Yuuri didn’t know he could be. He didn’t know if it was something he’s always had, locked up deep inside of him, waiting. Or if it was Viktor, who saw the embers glowing and gave it the breath of air it needed. “I want to—I want to win. I want to prove that I can do it.” _To the entire world, and to you._

Viktor’s eyes danced with something immeasurably warm, and his mouth transformed into a wide, open smile. “Yuuri!” he exclaimed, and suddenly, Yuuri found himself pressed against Viktor’s chest, Viktor’s arms wrapped all around him. There was a hand in his hair, cupping the back of his head, and Yuuri could feel an earthquake forming in his chest, the thunder of it shaking him as his fingers reached up, and he instinctively clutched at Viktor’s jacket.

“You figured it out! I’m so proud of you,” Viktor was saying, but all Yuuri could focus on was the fact that his nose was pressed into the hollow of Viktor’s throat, and he could smell the musk of his cologne — sweet and dark at the same time.

Viktor’s skin was _so warm_. Yuuri could feel the steady beat of his pulse.

It was disorienting, when Viktor’s hands found traction on his shoulders, and gently pushed back so that he could look down at Yuuri, who stared up at Viktor with wide eyes, cheeks glowing red, heartbeat in his throat.

“Vi-Viktor…” Yuuri’s voice was a near-whisper. He thought he had gotten used to how much Viktor liked to touch him, but Viktor was still finding ways to surprise him. His hands molded over Yuuri’s shoulders, and the delight that split open Viktor’s mouth was so bright and wonderful.

He seemed blissfully unaware of the way Yuuri trembled, deep inside himself.

“Yuuri, I’m going to write you the most _beautiful_ songs,” Viktor said, his voice buoyant, but Yuuri was only thinking about the way Viktor’s fingers held his shoulders, and the warmth of his skin. He was wondering if Viktor might do it again, might want to put his arms around him, and pull him in so close, he would practically be breathing Viktor in.

The thought was treacherous — slippery and fast — and was chased immediately by a wave of guilt Yuuri didn’t understand, as he swallowed thickly and nodded as Viktor said, “We are going to do _incredible_ things together. I’m going to help you achieve _everything_ you could ever want.”

 

*

 

Everything Yuuri could ever want had not included Minako leering at Viktor across a table spread with bowls of katsudon, but somehow, that was what ended up happening that evening.

“ _Yuuri_ ,” Minako said, in a tone that made him cringe, winding her arm around his shoulders. Her hand found its way into his hair, and was making a show of ruffling it. “How nice of you to finally invite me to meet Viktor for dinner! Do you know how _impossible_ it was to get inside? Those bodyguards, they really take their jobs very seriously! If it wasn’t for your mother, I wouldn’t have even managed to get in!”

The ruffling stung at the roots of his hair, and Yuuri had to fight himself to not say _ow_ , even if he completely deserved what Minako was dishing out, for not telling her about Viktor managing him. For not inviting her sooner, to meet him, even though she was the one who had taken him to just about every single Viktor Nikiforov concert he’d ever been to, growing up. She was the one who had encouraged his passion for music, to chase after his dream, even if it was ephemeral and so difficult to grasp.

“Sorry, Minako-sensei,” Yuuri said through a wince. “I just—I got caught up by everything.”

“Yuuri’s always like that, Viktor,” Minako was saying, completely ignoring Yuuri, as she rested her elbow on the table, chin propped in one hand, and looked across the table at Viktor. “Sometimes, he lets himself get easily overwhelmed by things. You know, he has a habit of overthinking things.”

“Oh? Is that so? Tell me more,” Viktor said, with a sly smile that he shared with Minako.

“Minako-sensei!” Yuuri objected, mortified at the thought that Minako was going to tell Viktor terribly embarrassing things about him.

“One time, when Yuuri was about fourteen or so, he wanted to perform a dance cover of one of your songs in a talent show, but got very nervous right before he was supposed to go on—”

“Oh god.” Yuuri covered his face, which felt about as red as the sweater Viktor was wearing.

“Oh, Yuuri can dance?” Viktor asked, suddenly very interested, as he glanced at Yuuri, who was trying not to sweat.

“Yes! He’s very good, actually,” Minako said, and Yuuri laughed nervously.

“Minako-sensei, you don’t have to tell him—”

“Yuuri,” Viktor said, his tone chastising. “If I’m to be your manager and producer, I need to know _everything_ about you. Don’t you think that knowing you can dance would be important? Is it part of your performance?”

Yuuri sighed and nodded.

“So it’s part of your creative vision? I thought you only wanted to sing and play piano.” Viktor was suddenly serious, and Minako fell silent as she looked between Yuuri and Viktor. There was a soft, proud smile on her face, her eyes gleaming.

“Ah…no...” Yuuri was starting to understand, fully, why Viktor had wanted him to think deeply about his creative vision. Viktor wasn’t just thinking of the kind of music he would write with Yuuri — he was thinking of Yuuri’s performance, too. For Viktor, there wasn’t a difference between making music and performing it; it was all part of a beautiful, perfect whole. From the very first note, Viktor could see the way it would play out on stage. Music, for him, was always meant to be _performed_.

“I’ve always been inspired by your performances, Viktor,” Yuuri said. “I don’t just want to play a piano and sing… I want to… I want to create art with my performances. I want it to be... inspiring, too.”

Viktor beamed, his smile dazzling. There was something bright there, in his gaze. He looked _inspired_. “Yuuri, that’s wonderful! That means I can choreograph a challenging number for you, too,” he said, as he took a huge bite of katsudon. “ _Vkusno_!” he exclaimed, chewing happily, and then Yuuri remembered that he had a bowl of food he should probably eat, before it got cold, too.

He picked up his chopsticks, and Viktor peered at him curiously, at what was in his bowl. “Yuuri, I thought you didn’t like katsu- _don_!”

“Oh, no, I love it,” Yuuri said with a shy smile.

“It’s his favorite!” Minako chimed in. “Yuuri loves to eat it, especially after he wins competitions.”

“Really?” Viktor asked around a mouthful of katsudon, an errant fleck of rice sticking to his chin. “Have you eaten it lately, Yuuri?”

“Yes, of course,” Yuuri replied with a smile as he started to dig into his bowl. “I eat it all the time!”

“Why? You haven’t won anything, yet.” Viktor’s smile was _blinding_ . Yuuri stared at him, chopsticks frozen in one hand, as Minako’s hands flew up to cover her mouth. “With that body of yours, the kind of choreo I would want you to do would be meaningless right now. You need to get back to your weight at the _Grand Prix Voice_ , at the very least… or you can forget about actually dancing on stage~  Until then, no more katsu- _don_ for you, little piglet~!”

Yuuri felt like he was melting off his chair and onto the floor. He thought he should be offended by it, by the cruelty that spun on Viktor’s tongue, so sweetly delivered. But there was something about Viktor’s smile, and about the teasing jibe that made Yuuri feel warm and flushed. Though, that might have more to do with Viktor, and how Yuuri suddenly remembered what it felt like, to be wrapped in his arms.

“Tomorrow, we’re going to train,” Viktor said with a wink. “I hope you’re ready.”

 

*

 

It turns out that nothing could have prepared Yuuri for what Viktor had in store for him.

For the past three weeks, with only a break on Sundays, Viktor expected Yuuri to be up at six. He would greet him merrily each day, with a rotating menu of strange drinks in his hand, and they would walk past empty barricades that no longer held a teeming crowd, and jog to the gym nearby to train.

Yuuri weight-lifted three days a week after an hour of cardio, and did high intensity interval training or crossfit on the days in between. In the afternoons, they headed to a small studio at the back of the Haselton Music Center, where they worked on rough demos and song ideas. When the crowd outside the inn finally grew manageable, Yuuri had insisted on changing their home base to somewhere closer, more convenient. It was also more affordable. Until they were ready to record, they were better off staying in Haselton, even though they had to dodge the occasional paparazzi, and there was always a small group of fans loitering around outside the music center.

Yuuri spent every waking moment of his life with Viktor.

They trained together, wrote music together, and ate together, though Viktor’s meals always looked far more appetizing than Yuuri’s. Yuuri’s diet had turned rather bland — Viktor had replaced just about all of his meals with lean protein — usually in the form of steamed chicken or some kind of fish, and leafy, green vegetables. All of the sugary drinks Yuuri liked so much were banned. He drank water, fresh pressed juice, and protein shakes, and tried not to look too closely at the soft parts of himself in the mirror, whenever he changed his clothing.

The shake Viktor had handed Yuuri earlier isn’t quite as bad as he had thought it would be. It tastes like chocolate, though there’s a strange grittiness to it, a kind of mealy cardboard flavor, sitting at the back of his tongue. Yuuri doesn’t want to think of what Viktor must have put in it, so he chugs down the entire shake, trying not to look a little too green around the gills, as he wipes his mouth.

“Ugh,” he says again, and Viktor pretends to look wounded.

“Yuuri, I put my _love_ and hard work into that!” Viktor says, one hand pressed to his chest.

“I’m sorry, Viktor,” Yuuri says, nearly deadpan, as he puts the glass down on the counter. “Your love and hard work tastes too much like wet cardboard.”

Viktor blinks, and Yuuri suddenly realizes what had just come out of his mouth. He flushes red, shaking his head wildly. “No! That wasn’t—I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry!”

A smile _explodes_ across Viktor’s mouth, and he’s laughing.

It’s the most beautiful sound in the world.

 

*

 

A bell tolls.

The sound of it cuts through the air, ringing across the harbor, as Yuri stares out at the boats drifting by.

For a town that only has a population of about ten thousand, it’s incredible, how difficult it is to find the world’s biggest pop star. Yuri didn’t think that it would be such a challenge, considering the fact that the venues Viktor performs in could fit the population of Haselton inside them, twice over. He thought that he would have strolled into town and easily found Viktor. But all he managed to uncover, in the span of hours since his arrival, is a thrift shop that sold some pretty cool t-shirts.

Yuri lets out a slow breath of frustration, and digs out his phone. If he can’t find Viktor on his own, then he’ll just have to rely on social media. After all, someone like Viktor Nikiforov doesn’t simply walk around a small town like Haselton without attracting a fair deal of attention.

“Found you,” Yuri says, as he looks at the location marked on an image of Viktor that was posted an hour earlier on Instagram.

It appears to be some kind of music center, and is only a short walk away, judging by its location on Google Maps.

Yuri grits his teeth and, with phone in hand, navigates himself through narrow cobblestone streets, past boarded up surf shacks and ice cream stores, and a cafe on the corner that smells of coffee and sweet caramel. He walks past a schoolyard filled with children playing in the brisk air of early spring, that carries the promise of something new and sweet in its breeze.

He walks until he finds himself across the street from the only place Viktor Nikiforov could possibly be, if the size of the crowd outside is anything to judge by.

Yuri shoves in through the crowd without much warning, ignoring the cries of surprise and confusion all around him. He slams his way through, in a straight path, until he finds himself confronted with the barricade, which might be able to hold back a crowd of girls, but could not possibly hope to thwart the unstoppable force that is Yuri Plisetsky. He vaults over the top of the barricade, and pulls his bag up after him, then makes his way, with determined steps, towards the door, where he can see Anton, one of Viktor’s security guards.

“Excuse me!” a small voice cries out. “I’m sorry, but you can’t go in there!”

“ _Hah?_ ” It’s a snarl of breath, hot and furious and deadly, as Yuri whirls on his heel and glares down at three small, identical faces that stare up at him. The crowd at their backs goes silent with shock, and Yuri is, suddenly, very aware of all the eyes trained on his face.

“Yu-Yu-Yuri Plisetsky!” the triplets chirp in unison, and behind them, the crowd scrambles to take photos of him. The flashes go off like stars exploding in his eyes, but Yuri ignores them, in favor of looking down at the tiny gate keepers, who must think they are more effective at guarding Viktor than his security detail.

“Viktor’s in there, isn’t he?” Yuri asks, with a thumb jerking over his shoulder.

“Go in, go in!” the triplets chorus, as though Yuri needs their _permission_.

He should have seen it coming, or at least expected that it would: Yuuri Katsuki, slamming in past him like a category five typhoon.

He runs right past Yuri without even noticing him standing there — sweaty, out of breath, entirely pathetic, and crashes against the glass door, gasping to himself about how _exhausted_ he is, while the triplets try to get his attention. “Yuuri,” they warn together, pointing up at Yuri, who feels something snapping inside of him like wires sparking.

“Can you believe it?” Yuuri wheezes, and it’s not clear if he’s talking to himself, or to the triplets. “I’m just about the weight I was during the _Grand Prix Voice_! Now, I’ll finally get Viktor’s permission to start choreography!”

Like a wire tripping, everything inside of Yuri _explodes_. He tastes the spark of flint on his tongue, the metallic bite of something nasty and dark at the back of his throat. He tastes his rage, which boils up inside him, volcanic and white-hot, as he whirls on his heel and stares down the back of this no-good, talentless, sack of _shit_ , who cried in a bathroom stall at the _Grand Prix Voice_ , who had _stolen Viktor and his debut from him._ Who was more concerned about his _weight_ than he was about his _music_ , and was outside, doing god-knows-what, when Viktor was inside, _waiting._

This _fucker_.

Yuri is here to take back what rightfully belongs to him.

There will be a reckoning, and Yuri is here to _reap_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and sorry for the long wait! Life has been kind of crazy for me, so most likely, new chapters will take 1-2 weeks minimum. I definitely haven't given up on this fic at all! (Though, it super helps to hear encouragement from readers and to know what they think and that they're still following this fic. ^^;;) 
> 
> Finally, Yurio has appeared and the plot thickens! The next chapter will most likely move quickly, as a result! I had a ton of fun writing Yurio, even if he is a bit of a brat. His addition to the fic has added some heavier rock tracks to [Encore's OST](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLDn2XGRgVg3zg6cU-RlRCTEDnhhgaA8LW)! 
> 
> Also, if you missed it, _Encore_ now has cover art! [Check it out on here!!!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9083284/chapters/20654497)
> 
> A huge thank you, as always, to my editor, [powerandpathos](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/powerandpathos) for staying up an ungodly hour to edit this chapter.
> 
> **If you liked this fic, please leave kudos or share with your friends! Or leave a comment if you'd like to see more.**
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! You can find me on Tumblr at [subtextually.tumblr.com](http://subtextually.tumblr.com) if you'd like to chat! ^^


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Edited by [@powerandpathos](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/powerandpathos)
> 
> **Disclaimer:** A fair amount of dialogue is lifted directly from the anime and re-used for the purpose of the narrative in this chapter, and belongs to Kubo-sensei. 
> 
> [Click to listen to Encore's OST](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLDn2XGRgVg3zg6cU-RlRCTEDnhhgaA8LW) \- 6 songs added! 
> 
> **Warning:** Canon fat-shaming in this chapter, as well as canon-similar violence. Yuuri also deals with anxiety and panic attacks.

March roared in like a lion, blustery winds scraping across the sea. It made the waves at dawn wild and churning and breathless with the anticipation of spring.

Yuuri would stand at the edge of the beach during a pause in his morning runs, and watch the waves reach for the shore, watery fingers trying to grasp the earth. They pulled a little bit more of the earth back, each time they met the edge, in a slow ebb, steady as time.

There were days when Yuuri felt like the waves on the distant horizon — constantly reaching for something he could never quite grasp.

But Viktor drew him in like the gravity of the earth pulling the sea back from the moon, and in the days that had passed since his arrival, Yuuri could finally feel something foaming beneath his fingers that he could grasp and make sense of — something real and growing steadily tangible. Sometimes, when he sat in the studio next to Viktor, watching Viktor’s fingers dance across the keys of the piano, and watching his own fingers dance the same steps after, Yuuri could feel something bright and wonderful rising within him.

Something like the sun, waiting to break through the clouds after a storm.

Something _beautiful_.

“Once you’re back to your _Grand Prix Voice_ weight,” Viktor told him, when they first started training together, “we can start to really think about the kind of performances you’ll have in your comeback. But first, I need to see what kind of music your body creates when you dance.”

Every part of Yuuri ached from the rigor of training, and the thought of dancing — something he hadn’t done since the _Grand Prix Voice_ — seemed insurmountable in the body he inhabited. Too soft; too heavy.

But it wasn’t really his weight, or the discomfort with the body he woke up in each day, that prevented Yuuri from dancing. He had been inactive for so many months, his muscles had atrophied, the strength he once possessed — gone. Only injury lay in wait if he tried to launch himself immediately into the kind of dancing Viktor wanted him to do.

Yuuri had to whittle himself back into the kind of instrument Viktor knew he could be. Though the process was slow and painful, and, at times, felt almost impossible, Yuuri could see the shore drawing closer. Could feel it in the progress he made in his training each day, and in the music that they wrote together.

It was there — within his grasp, and all he had to do was close his fingers around it.

Yuuri could hardly believe it when he stepped on the scale this morning for his weekly weigh-in, and saw that he was only ten pounds away from the weight he had been at the height of his physical fitness. And when he added an extra ten pounds to the leg press and was still able to perform his sets without much issue, Yuuri realized that he was as ready as he would ever be.  

He had been so caught up in the excitement, the thrill of anticipation of how Viktor would react when he finally told him, that Yuuri hadn’t seen it coming at all. Hadn’t expected that, waiting for him at Haselton Music Center, would be a storm.

It sweeps in, furious and fast, kicking at him from behind with a violence that wants him to hurt. The force of it sends Yuuri stumbling through through the doors, palms and knees cracking against the ground as he goes down, sprawling onto the linoleum of the lobby floor.

Yuuri’s heart slams inside his chest like a wild drum, and he lies there, with his breath punched out. For a moment, all he feels is the burning, the way his lungs shudder inside of him like they’re drowning, and all he can do is choke on everything but the air that can’t make its way into him, caught somewhere at the opening of his throat. He tries his best to work around it, to get in a breath past the constriction. Tries to tell himself that he’s safe, that Anton’s outside. That whatever — whoever — had gotten through the barricade is, for now, back where they belong.

I’m okay, he tells himself, and it’s a lie. His hands throb and his knees hurt, and there are bruises forming in his skin, and if Viktor sees it, he’ll be so _worried_.

Yuuri clutches the floor like it might somehow protect him.

How could anyone get past the barricade? How could Anton _let them_?

Before Yuuri can pick his head up to look, to see who had assaulted him, there’s suddenly a hand in his hair, yanking up his jaw, pain burning through his scalp, and down his back— and every part of Yuuri seizes up with fear splitting through his body as he thrashes, his gaze blurring in panic, and he tries to wrench himself away, because someone’s trying to _hurt him_ , and Anton’s letting this happen, and—

“It’s all your fault!” The words snap like knuckles to his temple, and Yuuri’s so confused by them, that he pauses for the half-second it takes to raise his eyes. What he sees makes him stop struggling entirely. There, standing above Yuuri, with one hand tangled in his hair, and eyes so green they burn like emeralds cut into his face, Yuri Plisetsky scowls down at him. “ _Apologize_ ,” Yuri demands, breath full of fury and disdain and hurt welling up behind the violence of it all.

Yuuri stares, shocked.

“I-I’m sorry!” Yuuri hates the way his voice sounds, like a whimper, a terrible thing in the back of his throat. Hates even more that he doesn’t know _why_ he apologized at all, when he’s done nothing wrong.

“Mr. Plisetsky!” Anton calls from the doorway, and Yuuri can hear his feet approaching. “Mr. Plisetsky, please — let him go!”

Yuri curses in Russian, and Anton’s suddenly there, one hand closing around Yuri’s wrist.

“Mr. Plisetsky,” Anton says sternly. Yuri lets out a huff of derision, and lets go of Yuuri’s hair.

“ _Pig_ ,” he sneers down at Yuuri, then steps back so Anton can help Yuuri get to his feet.

“Mr. Katsuki, are you alright?” Anton asks, and Yuuri nods, wincing a little, as he rubs at his hair. “Would you like me to call anyone for you? Should I inform Mr. Nikifo—”

“No!” Yuuri’s eyes are wild and his breath comes out of him a little too fast. Viktor can’t know that this happened — that Yuuri had taken a fall. If he thinks that Yuuri might be even a little injured, he might stop Yuuri from starting choreography for a few more days. “No, it’s fine, please don’t say anything to Viktor, Anton. I’m sure it’s just—” He pauses, and glances at Yuri, who’s currently glaring at him from beneath his hoodie. “It’s a misunderstanding.”

“I understand. Please let me know if there is anything I can do, sir.” Anton looks a little uncomfortable, but once his gaze has swept over Yuuri once more, he nods, then glances at Yuri warily. “Please do not assault Mr. Katsuki again, Mr. Plisetsky, or I may be forced to take action neither of us would like.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Yuri dismisses him, with a roll of the eyes.

“Thank you, Anton,” Yuuri says. “I’m sure it will be fine.”

Anton gives them both a nod, then returns to his post.

“Just so we’re clear, _fatso_ , there’s no misunderstanding.” Yuri practically spits the words out the second the glass doors close behind Anton, upper lip curled back in a sneer. “Viktor told me that he would produce my debut, three years ago. He was supposed to be in the studio with me, a month ago. But instead, he’s here. With _you_.”

It suddenly all makes sense — why Yuri had come all this way to shove his foot into Yuuri’s back. Why he looks at him with such disgust. Why anger rolls off him like the waves during a storm, dark and dangerous, threatening to drown anyone who dares to look.

“Ah,” Yuuri says, guilt rising quietly within him. Yuri must feel like Viktor was stolen from him.

“Well? How many songs has he produced for you so far?” Yuri asks, and Yuuri’s caught off-guard by the question.

“Um…” he starts off, a little awkwardly. “He hasn’t actually… produced anything besides a few demos…”

“ _Hah_?” Yuri snarls, and suddenly he’s in Yuuri’s space, a finger driving up into his face. “You get him to take a break from his career, and do what? Sit around and make kissy faces at each other instead of _work?_ Isn’t getting him as a manager enough? You have to waste his time by flirting with him, instead of actually writing music?”

You’re wrong, Yuuri wants to tell him. _It’s not true, the things they write about us in the magazines._ It’s not, even if Viktor touches him more than anyone ever has in his entire life, and is affectionate with him in all the ways Yuuri has learned to slowly accept. It’s not like Viktor’s in love with him, the way all the magazines say. And it certainly isn’t like he wants to date him, or has ever suggested that he might be interested in Yuuri beyond the current boundaries of their relationship.

Yuuri wants to tell Yuri that he’s wrong, that the reason why they haven’t written anything substantial isn’t because they’ve been _flirting_ , but because Viktor’s been waiting for Yuuri to get back in shape, so that he can see how he _moves_. So he can envision the performance as a whole, not simply the music alone, without Yuuri’s body to move it. But before he can, Yuri spits out, “As if an _amateur_ who’d cry in the bathroom just because he _lost_ can become a _real_ musician just because he has _Viktor Nikiforov_ to produce him.”

It slams in on Yuuri like the stall door, at the _Grand Prix Voice_ _Finals_.

Yuri Plisetsky had stood over him, disgust hanging heavy over his eyes. He looked at him like Yuuri was a piece of trash, stared at the tear-tracks that lined his face, at the red that lined his eyes, and told him that he should just quit. That the world didn’t need two singers with the same name, especially one as incompetent as Yuuri.

When I debut next year, I don’t need someone like you, sharing my stage, Yuri had said to him, back then, and Yuuri had believed him. Had gone back to Haselton, thinking that he was better off quitting, that the stage he wanted to stand on wasn’t built for someone like him. That he wasn’t good enough, wasn’t talented enough, wasn’t _competent_ enough to become a _real_ musician.

But Viktor had _seen_ something in him. Had come all this way to Haselton to become his manager and producer. Had spent every waking hour of his life for an entire month beside him, because Yuuri inspired him. Moved him in a way that Viktor never expected. He saw something in Yuuri that he wanted to mold with his hands, clay called to life in an artist’s palms.

Viktor _believes_ in him, but Yuri doesn’t see that.

All he sees, when he looks at Yuuri, is something he doesn’t understand. A stone to step over, on his onwards march towards the stage, instead of a serious contender who might one day compete with him under the same spotlights.

Yuuri can’t help the smirk that curls its way across his mouth.

“What the hell are smirking at, pig?” Yuri scowls, and Yuuri forces his features into the same disarming smile he’d learned how to make, after a month alongside Viktor.

“Ah, I’m sorry, but I’m not really sure what to say,” Yuuri says lightly. “I think it’s better if you just talk to Viktor yourself.”

 

*

 

The studios at Haselton Music Center are a collection of small, windowless, soundproofed rooms housed at the back of the shop, each boasting its own piano. Yuuri had spent hours, in his childhood, in these rooms, whenever they weren’t being rented out to local music teachers who taught lessons in the evenings. He had taught himself some of the most difficult classical pieces under the dim ceiling light, losing himself in music while other children enjoyed their summer days strolling along the boardwalk and swimming along the shore.

The largest of the rooms is outfitted with a grand piano, and is the only room in the center that has any kind of recording capabilities, in the form of an audio interface attached to an outdated Macbook Pro that sits, mostly unused, against the far wall. The cables leading out of the interface lead to a small closet that had been converted into a claustrophobic vocal booth, soundproofed with egg crate foam.

Viktor had stared at the booth with a perplexed expression when he first encountered it — as though he wasn’t entirely sure that it really was a vocal booth.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t go back to Fox Point?” he had asked, while inspecting the microphone in the booth. “They don’t even have a condenser mic here, Yuuri. This is just a dynamic mic. Your voice is going to sound terrible on this.”  

“I’m sure,” Yuuri said. “We’re not really ready to seriously record yet… so it’s just a waste of money to go back there, when we don’t have anything to actually record.”

Viktor looked skeptically at the foam, which looked old and worn down, and gave a cursory, unsatisfied glance at the audio interface, but then acquiesced with a faint smile. “Alright,” he said. “We’ll do it your way, Yuuri.”

Yuuri’s way meant giving up the creature comforts of a full, modern recording studio, with its large, spacious rooms, high-end recording equipment, and polished wood floors. It meant giving up comfortable, plush couches to sit on, and a bright, airy kitchen that was always stocked with organic snacks, fruits, and a variety of artisanal coffee. It also boasted a Vitamix blender, where Viktor often made strange concoctions that Yuuri was cajoled into drinking.

They now walk on threadbare carpet and sit on uncomfortably old leather couches that sag, with stuffing coming out of tears in the arms. There is no kitchen here, only a vending machine; the ceilings are low, and they have to walk through tight, narrow hallways, to get to the room they work in, occasionally running into local music teachers and their students. But, the pianos here are just as good as the ones in Fox Point Studios.

“No wonder you haven’t recorded anything,” Yuri says as they walk through the dimly lit, winding hallway, peering into one of the empty rooms which only has an upright piano and three chairs. “This place is a dump.”

“It’s not really a recording studio,” Yuuri explains, as they head towards the muted sounds of piano notes slipping under the door at the end of the hall. “It’s more of a practice studio.”

“It’s still a dump,” Yuri insists as he takes in the thin carpet beneath his feet and the faded, peeling paint on the walls. “I’m surprised Viktor would even step foot in a place like this. He usually has such high standards.”

The words, carelessly cruel, land somewhere at the base of Yuuri’s stomach. Haselton Music Center has always held an important place in Yuuri’s life; it is where he honed his skills as a pianist; where he had learned how to truly love and appreciate music. It may not have polished, wood floors, or wide, spacious studios, or high end recording equipment like Fox Point Studios; but it’s still home to a Steinway that Thelonious Monk once owned, and countless aspiring musicians had walked through its doors, played on its pianos, and learned how to live and love music within its walls.

There was one afternoon, a week ago, when they had just finished lunch, and Viktor had paused to admire the Steinway.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, as he ran his fingers appreciatively over the keys.

“You’ll never guess who owned it,” Yuuri said with a smile as he came to stand next to Viktor.

“Who?” Viktor was already sliding onto the bench, fingers finding their way onto the keys like it’s where they’ve always belonged.

“Thelonious Monk,” said Yuuri, and he remembered the awed surprise that had blown Viktor’s eyes as wide as the sky above.

“Really?” Viktor asked, and there was something quiet and amazed in his voice. He was staring down at the piano beneath his hands like he could see the history in it, feel it in the polish of the keys. Maybe he could hear the wild madness of jazz curling through it like smoke through a club packed with gentlemen in dapper suits and ladies with their hair done up in pin curls, necks draped with silk and pearls. “The first time I played jazz live, I played Thelonious Monk,” he said, and Yuuri wondered if he could remember how dazzling his performance had been. How bright his smile was, under all those lights.

“I know,” Yuuri said with a nostalgic smile. “I was there.”

There was something soft in Viktor’s eyes when he looked at Yuuri, and all Yuuri could feel, for the rest of the day, was the warmth of Viktor’s smile.

Haselton Music Center isn’t glamorous, and it isn’t the kind of place a man like Viktor Nikiforov might normally choose to walk into, without a reason. But he’s stepped foot into this shop by his own volition every day since Yuuri asked to make the switch, and has never complained about it being too old, or too dirty, and has never called it a “dump” like Yuri, who only sees the cracked paint and thin carpet, but none of its history.

He hadn’t even paused to look at the Steinway, when they walked past it en route to the studios at the back of the shop.

“Please don’t say things like that,” Yuuri says quietly, and almost immediately regrets saying anything at all. Yuri wouldn’t understand. He certainly doesn’t respect Yuuri, let alone respect the places that Yuuri considers sacred. All Yuuri has done is give Yuri ammunition to hurt him with.  

“Hah?” Yuri scowls up at him with an arched eyebrow. “What the hell are you going on about, pig?”

“Nevermind,” Yuuri says, shaking his head as they finally make it to the room, where, just beyond, Viktor is playing piano. “Let’s just go in.”

Quietly, Yuuri turns the knob and pushes the door open to reveal Viktor, sitting at the grand piano with his eyes closed, lost in music Yuuri’s never heard before. This is something new, something fully formed, unlike the demos they’ve been working on for the past month.

[It’s a jazz ballad](https://youtu.be/5KQyzlJ21KM) — sensual and slow and melancholy in a way Yuuri hadn’t expected from Viktor. There is a loneliness that rocks its way through the notes. A single dancer swaying on an empty stage, arms wrapped around himself, with no one to hold.

Yuuri’s breath catches in his throat, and he wishes that he was witnessing this performance alone. That Yuri wasn’t standing next to him, watching impassively. If he were alone, Yuuri could walk over to Viktor and sit down next to him. Maybe Viktor might give him one of those ridiculous smiles of his and declare that he’s thought of something brilliant, and the loneliness Yuuri hears in his music would ebb away with arms thrown around him.

As the song transitions into the chorus, the loneliness falls away to something that almost feels like hope. Something bright, hiding just beyond the clouds.

“Ah, this must be the new record Viktor was working on.” Yuri’s voice quietly breaks through Yuuri’s enjoyment of Viktor’s music, like a cold gust of wind.

Yuuri tears his eyes away from Viktor to stare at Yuri, confused. “Wait — what?”

“Viktor was already writing new music for his next album and was planning to tour this year,” Yuri explains from the doorway, as he watches Viktor’s fingers move across the keys. “But, he didn’t really know where to go with his music, and had no idea what kind of creative direction to take with his stage. Surprising his audience has always been his top priority. But, no matter what he does these days, no one’s ever surprised anymore. He’s done everything there is to do, as a musician and performer, so I guess he lost inspiration. And you know, as a musician, if you don’t have any inspiration left, you’re as good as dead.”

The revelation slams into Yuuri harder than any punch. Like Yuri just reached into him and closed his fist around his lungs, squeezing all the breath out of his chest. The burn goes all the way down, and all Yuuri can think is that he had taken Viktor away from this; that Viktor had all these plans that he had given up for him. There was all this music, waiting there under Viktor’s fingers for him to perform and sing, but Viktor didn’t want to write any of it, because he wanted to write for _Yuuri_ , instead.

It’s a little impossible to believe the truth: Viktor had lost inspiration in himself, but found it in someone like Yuuri, who could only ever hope to be a _fraction_ of the musician and performer Viktor is.

The song transitions into a bridge and Yuuri returns his attention to Viktor, unsure of what he’s supposed to do with all of this newfound knowledge.

“If Viktor’s not planning on dropping a new record this year, I wonder if he’ll let me use this song,” Yuri says after a moment. “I know I can surprise people more than him. I just need his help with my major label debut, and to win next year’s _Grand Prix Elite_.”

Yuuri’s attention violently snaps back to the boy standing beside him. “Eh?”

It hadn’t occurred to him that Yuri Plisetsky would share his goal — to compete in, and win, next year’s _Grand Prix Elite_.

But then, Yuuri was so caught up by the fact that Yuri was here at all, that he hadn’t thought of what it means for him to want Viktor to produce his debut _now_ , at the same time that he’s writing Yuuri’s.

Yuri would never be able to qualify for this year’s competition in time, not with the qualifications he would need to have, such as a Billboard 100 charting record, as well as a headlining tour with at least four dates. With this year’s _Grand Prix Elite_ only nine months away, it simply isn’t possible for Yuri to record an entire album, release it, _and_ stage a live tour, all before the nomination deadline in September.  

It makes sense that next year’s _Grand Prix Elite_ would be the one Yuri would have his eyes set on.

Yuuri just hadn’t realized that Yuri would expect Viktor to help him _win_ , when Viktor had been so focused on helping Yuuri for the past month.

Just as Viktor approaches what feels like the natural end of the song, Yuri clears his throat loudly. “Looks like you’re having a _great_ vacation, huh, Viktor?”

Viktor looks up from the keys and blinks, and then his mouth spreads into a wide smile as he gets up from his seat. “Yuriii~! What are you doing here?” he asks as he crosses over towards the door. “I can’t believe that Yakov actually let you come here to visit! Did you come all this way just to surprise me?”

Yuuri can feel the waves of anger rolling off Yuri from where he stands next to him, and Viktor’s eyes widen slightly, before his face transforms with a blissful, blinding smile.  

“Judging from that look on your face, I’m guessing I’ve forgotten some promise I’ve made,” Viktor says far too brightly, and Yuri makes a frustrated sound that’s half a growl.

“God dammit, Viktor, you promised me you would produce my debut!” Yuri snaps with a stamp of the foot, fingers curled into a fist that he shakes in Viktor’s direction. “You’re a whole month late!”

“Ah, sorry, sorry, I totally forgot!” Viktor laughs. “But you know, I’m the forgetful type, right?”

“Yeah, I know that _real_ well,” Yuri says disdainfully, trembling with anger simmering under his words. His eyes flash, glittering hard in his face, as he levels Viktor with a glare that scorches the air between them. “But a promise is a promise! You’re gonna produce my major label debut! Come back with me to Los Angeles!”

Over the course of the past month, Yuuri had let Viktor slowly work him into something that was starting to take form, like grains of wet sand coalescing under careful fingers. Viktor had formed a foundation out of the mess of him that he’d been, gathered up all the grains of him to make him into something that was learning to stand without Viktor’s hands pulling him up. Yuuri was starting to see the possibility of what he could become. He could see the structure of what Viktor intended to build, the thoughtful architecture of his design.

But Yuri came sweeping in, unforgiving and relentless, like the sea at high tide. He’ll sweep Viktor off the shore, and Yuuri’s unsteady foundations with him.

Yuuri’s not ready for this. Not ready to let him go.

He’d only just gotten used to the idea of having him here. Of waking up in the mornings and seeing him, smiling and bright, offering a glass of something disgusting in his hand. Of their walks along the shore before the rest of the world fully wakes, when it is quiet and the sun still new, Makkachin running ahead of them, the cry of seagulls reverberating overhead. Of the way he makes Yuuri feel, when they write music together — like he can become as successful as Viktor one day; like he can learn how to be invincible, too. Like maybe he really can believe when Viktor tells him that he can win, that he’s good enough, that he’s meant for this, and always has been.

The sky is only as high as he thinks it is, and all he has to do is reach high enough to grasp what’s been waiting for him all along.

Nothing is impossible, unless you believe it is, Viktor said.

 _You’re_ impossible, Yuuri wanted to tell him, because the idea of having Viktor all to himself, of being able to hold onto him and think of him as a constant part of his life, was something Yuuri never dared to even _dream_ about. And yet, in the weeks that had passed, he’d allowed himself to fall into the lure of something that was far too good to be true — the idea of having Viktor as something that belonged to him.

He’s really my producer, he would think, watching Viktor as he worked out a new song idea. _Mine, no one else’s._

Except for Yuri Plisetsky.

Yuuri feels everything drop out of the bottom of him, and his gaze slowly moves from Yuri to Viktor.

Please don’t go, he wishes he could say, but the words stick to the roof of his mouth, and all he can do is stare at Viktor as something inside of him shakes. And he knows just how unfair it is that he would even wish such a thing, how selfish it is of him to want to hold onto Viktor, when he’d left so much behind; when Viktor had made promises to Yuri, first. When Viktor never should have been here at all, and the time he had already spent with Yuuri should be something Yuuri should consider a blessing; something he should feel grateful for.

And yet, he can’t help but want to be selfish. To want to hold onto Viktor, even if his hands are clumsy and tremble and he doesn’t have the right words.

Beside him, Yuri glares at Viktor expectantly. They both watch as Viktor hums contemplatively, the wheels in his head turning as he works through the impossibility of being on two coasts simultaneously.

“Okay, I’ve decided!” Viktor announces, after a moment, and Yuuri thinks to himself, this is it. Viktor’s going to tell him that he’s going to leave. That he’s going to go back to Los Angeles, and help Yuri produce his album, before he comes back. But when Viktor opens his mouth next, what comes out is: “I’ll produce a cover for the _both_ of you.”

Yuuri’s mouth drops; it’s anti-climactic. Confusing. The fear he had of Viktor leaving suddenly finds itself replaced with consternation. How could Viktor think that he and Yuri should perform the same music?

“ _What?_ The same cover?” Yuuri asks, as Yuri’s voice overlaps his in a louder shout: “You’re gonna make us perform _the same music_?”

“No,” Viktor says, “they’re going to be new arrangements of different covers.” He cocks his head. Pauses. “But they’ll deal with a similar theme. A month from now, you’ll compete in front of a live audience, who will vote on your performances! It’s the perfect way to get back in the game.”

Yuuri stares, realizing the implication. They will be judged, solely by the strength of their performance; by the audience, just like in the _Grand Prix Voice._ What if he freezes up again on stage? What if he can’t give the performance Viktor expects, under pressure?

Yuuri hasn’t been on a stage since the _Grand Prix Voice_. He had thought that when he did return, he wouldn’t have to face as much pressure. A small club, somewhere — or maybe a showcase at SXSW; a side stage of a small festival, something that wouldn’t attract too much attention. Maybe, there would only be about a hundred people watching; maybe only a handful. Yuuri would have been okay with that, so long as it meant he could learn how to stand on a stage without trembling like he did under the weight of the crowd at the _Grand Prix Voice._

He feels the crush of the voices again, the burn of the spotlight. The waters swirl around his ankles dangerously.

What if he lost? Would that mean that Viktor would leave?

He doesn’t want that kind of punishment.

“Viktor will do whatever the winner says!” Yuri declares, and his eyes gleam dangerously. “If those are the terms, I’m in!”

Say no, Yuuri thinks helplessly, as he looks at Viktor.

But, there’s a smile forming on Viktor’s face. And his eyes are bright in a way Yuuri has never seen. There’s an unhinged excitement there, glittering at the edges of his gaze, and the smile turns into a wide, unapologetic grin.  

“Great!” Viktor exclaims, and his enthusiasm is as palpable as the despair in Yuuri’s chest. “I love this kind of thing!”

A pause, and all Yuuri can think is, I wish you didn’t.  

 

*

 

Yuri can’t _believe_ that the great Viktor Nikiforov has been reduced to _this._

As though the shitty dump of a studio, with its dirty carpets and peeling-paint-walls wasn’t bad enough, it appears that Viktor’s been staying at some second-rate _inn_ , which isn’t even a real hotel. What happened to the Viktor Nikiforov who refused to stay in anything less than five stars? Who _always_ made Yakov send a _rider_ ahead to the entertainment sales manager, so that the hotel could prepare his room, exactly like he expected? Who required a brand new bluetooth stereo system, and a plush white rug by his bed, white, fluffy slippers, and sheets with a minimum one thousand thread count, and a humidifier set at fifty-five percent? Who once refused to stay in a hotel, because the dog bed the hotel had set out for Makkachin was pink, instead of blue?

This place he’s staying in, which is apparently Yuuri’s family inn, can barely be considered three stars.

The dull floorboards are old and faded, and there aren’t even carpets on the floor. Yellowed wallpaper, peeling at the edges, is plastered to the wall. The bed’s coverlet is old and thin, the color faded. It’s the kind of place Yuri had never thought he’d find Viktor.

Viktor always demands lush, luxury accommodations.

What had happened to his _standards_?

Did he flush it all down the toilet, along with his career?

Yuri thinks he’s going to puke.

He disdainfully looks around the room, at Viktor, reclining in a couch that he most _certainly_ bought, given its clean, modern design, and how strangely it fits in the room. At the way Makkachin is comfortably sprawled across the bed, like he would at home. At the way Yuuri Katsuki fits into the picture, like he was always meant to be there, when he _wasn’t_.

Shit. Yuri realizes that he’s going to need to stay in this dump, too. If he doesn’t stay close to Viktor, Yuuri will find some way to monopolize his time, and he’ll gain an unfair advantage.

“If you get Viktor all to yourself,” Yuri says, “it won’t be a fair match. I’m staying here too!”

He refrains, barely, from calling it war.

“It’s not like you care what I think,” Yuuri says, with a disarming smile. It’s the kind of smile _Viktor_ usually makes, and seeing it on the pig’s face makes something in Yuri’s stomach _turn_.

“ _Whatever_ ,” Yuri sneers, upper lip curling back, and he realizes that he needs to seriously get the fuck out of this room, before he explodes. Because Viktor’s just sitting there on an expensive couch, surrounded by all this run-down shit, and he should be uncomfortable, like he’s aware of just how far beneath him this place is. But instead, he looks the happiest Yuri’s _ever_ seen him, and Yuri’s certain that it has everything to do with the weird, hazy look that floats across his eyes every single time he looks at Katsuki.

Apparently, Viktor Nikiforov is in love, or something equally ridiculous, and has forgotten that the motherfucking _Pride of Russia_ shouldn’t be making gross, lovey eyes at some no-rate, wannabe, sack of talentless _shit_. He should be on a stage. Or in a _real_ studio. In Los Angeles. Producing Yuri’s debut.

_Ugh._

“Get me a room!” he demands, in Yuuri’s direction, and then storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Moments pass, anger festering, in the hall. His stomach growls, and Yuri realizes he can’t avoid the inevitable. Eventually, he finds himself at a table in the kitchen, with a huge bowl of something called “katsudon” sitting in front of him.

He hadn’t actually expected to like it so much, especially when he’d already made up his mind that he wouldn’t like anything associated with Yuuri Katsuki. But, there is something wonderfully satisfying about the food. The pork cutlet that Yuuri had called “tonkatsu” is perfectly cooked, the breading thin and crispy. The sauce is tangy and sharp and sweet all at once, and Yuri finds himself really enjoying his meal, even if Yuuri’s mother was the one who had made it.

_I refuse to like anything related to Yuuri Katsuki._

Maybe he can make _one_ exception to his rule.

Behind him, the door opens, and a woman says, “Yuuri, do you have _another_ visitor?”

The thought of being Yuuri’s _guest_ is enough to stop Yuri’s eating in its tracks, and he whirls around angrily, with every intention of demonstrating just how _wrong_ this lady is. “ _Hah?_ ”

The lady is Asian, and looks like she’s maybe a few years older than Yuuri. Maybe she’s his older sister, or a cousin, or something. Her hair is swept back, wild above a thick headband. Something about her eyes, and the shape of her nose, reminds him of Yuuri.

Sister, he decides, looking at her cheeks, the set of her lips, so much like Yuuri’s.

She looks back at him in surprise, a strange smile spreading over her face, and Yuri frowns.

“This boy’s name is also Yuri,” says Yuuri’s mother, with a smile.

“What?” says Yuuri’s sister, as she looks down at him. “That’s totally confusing.”

Before Yuri can suggest that everyone just calls Yuuri “pig,” because that’s _totally_ an appropriate name for him, Yuuri’s sister points at Yuri and says, “Okay, then. You’re Yurio!”

“ _Hah?!_ ”

“Where’s Yurio staying?” asks Yuuri’s sister.

“My name’s not—” says Yuri.

“Upstairs in the—” Yuuri says.

“Hey, are you listening—” Yuri scowls, slamming a hand on the table.

“The storage room?” says Yuuri’s sister, completely ignoring Yuri. “Oh no, I have to clean it up. Yuuri, come help.”

“Yuri! My name is Yuri!” he calls after Yuuri’s sister, as she turns and disappears down the hall, and Yuuri gets up to go with her.

Neither of them acknowledge him, and it’s almost enough to make Yuri want to throw his bowl in their direction, just to _make_ them pay attention.

“ _Well_ ,” says Viktor, in a tone that Yuri knows is about to herald some legendary bullshit. “I like your new name, Yurio.”   

“Shut up!” Yuri yells. “My name’s not Yurio!"

 

*

 

Yuuri watches Viktor laugh from the hall.

He watches the way Viktor’s face tilts towards Yuri, as he cradles his chin in his jaw, and laughs. It’s the kind of laughter that is bright and open and _real_. Yuuri has never seen him laugh like this, with anyone else but him, until now. All this time, Yuuri had been operating in a suspended reality that was composed of only Viktor and himself; a reality, where he was the only one who could make Viktor laugh like this.

But Yuri had sliced that illusion open like a knife. Slid in, so easy, effortlessly comfortable next to Viktor in a way Yuuri’s not sure he’ll ever be.

Yuuri realizes that Yuri is a lot of things he’ll never be. At fifteen, Yuri has so much more potential than Yuuri could ever hope to have. He’s confident in a way Yuuri isn’t, so certain he’ll win the _Grand Prix Elite_ , immediately after his debut. He’s comfortable with Viktor; knows him better than Yuuri ever will.

Compared to him, Yuri’s so much more than Yuuri will ever be.

The realization cuts into Yuuri, twists somewhere in his gut.

It stabs through his throat, slamming it shut, a panicked flutter of every pulse beneath his skin scraping at the surface of him. His heart is suddenly, ten sizes too large, ribcage closing in, and all he can feel is the blood of him, the muscle and sinew and bone of him, the breath that isn’t working its way into him, pumping, rushing, suffocating. Too much, too little, all at once.

The walls shudder, shake.

He’s trapped inside of them, and there’s only one escape.

He needs to get out.

Needs to get away.

Yuuri runs.

 

*

 

The clock strikes eight.

Yuuri’s been gone an entire hour, cleaning up the storage room to make it habitable for Yuri.

It seems like an awfully long time to Viktor, who had been idly watching the evening news on television and petting Makkachin, as he waited for Yuuri to return.

“Is Yuuri still cleaning?” Viktor asks, when Mari walks into the room, and starts to clean off the table Yuri had slumped over and fallen asleep on. The kid must have been tuckered out, and couldn’t keep his eyes open past the first half of the news.

“He left a while ago,” Mari says, as she places empty bowls and Viktor’s beer glass on a tray. “He’s probably at Minako-san’s place, or Haselton Music Center.”

Viktor frowns. “Why would he go there?”

“He’s always been that way,” says Mari, as she wipes down the table, as though this is the sort of thing Yuuri does every night.

But in the month that Viktor has been in Haselton, he’s never seen Yuuri simply _disappear_ without letting him know where he was going. Even a quick run to the store, after the crowds out front had thinned, was heralded by a knock on the door and a, “Viktor, I’m going to the store. Do you need anything?”

Yuuri has _never_ left Viktor behind before, without a word.  

“If Yurio wakes up, can you please show him his room?” Viktor asks, and Mari pauses as she gives him a look, quiet and assessing.

“Sure,” she says, slowly. “I’d try Minako’s place first, if I were you.”

There’s a chill in the air tonight, the last remnants of winter biting at whatever exposed parts it can reach.

Viktor wraps a scarf around the lower half of his face, and tucks his hands into his pockets. He slips out into the hush of night, trailed by Maksim and Makkachin.

Above them, the moon cuts a bright crescent in the sky, stars like diamonds punching through the fabric of the universe. Viktor thinks he would have very much liked to enjoy this night with Yuuri. Thinks he would have liked taking a walk with him, through the quiet streets that are unaware of their presence, underneath this sky. He might have told him that he had nothing to worry about. That Viktor isn’t really going anywhere.

That even if Yuri wins, and demands that Viktor returns to Los Angeles with him, it doesn’t mean Viktor will stop being Yuuri’s manager. All Yuuri has to do is come with him to Los Angeles, and they can continue working on his music there.

It doesn’t take long for Viktor to make his way to Minako’s bar, where she can usually be found behind the bar, most nights.

There aren’t many patrons at the bar tonight, and barely anyone gives him notice when he walks in. Haselton has grown used to the idea of having Viktor Nikiforov as part of the scenery, and he no longer finds himself chased by the crowds he’d been confronted with, when he first arrived.

“Good evening,” Viktor pleasantly greets Minako, with a smile.

“Oh, Viktor!” Minako beams, as she sets a glass down in front of him. “It’s surprising to see you here, alone! What can I get you?”

“Actually,” he says, settling down on the stool, “I’m looking for Yuuri. Mari said he was at your place, but it seems he’s not here.”

“By ‘my place,’ Mari probably meant my piano studio,” Minako explains as she pours water into Viktor’s glass. “Whenever Yuuri gets anxious, he always wants to practice. I usually go with him, when he wants to use my studio. But since he didn’t come by, I’m guessing he’s at the music center. You know, they let him practice there, whenever they’re not busy, or booked.”

Viktor knows — Yuuri had told him, that it was like his second home.

It was where he practiced piano most, as a child.

“Yuuri was able to grow, because he had a place where he could practice alone, whenever he got anxious,” Minako continues. “He’s no genius, but he was gifted with more free time to practice than anyone else in the world.”

“Just being able to practice doesn’t make you talented, Minako,” Viktor says, with a smile. “The kind of talent Yuuri has… It isn’t something you can train into yourself.”

“Oh,” Minako laughs, softly. “I know. I wasn’t saying that Yuuri isn’t _talented_. I’m well aware of just how talented that boy is. But, you know, _some_ people,” she says, looking at him knowingly, “never really had to work very hard for them to develop a certain level of… aptitude. Some people are born with god-given talent, and others have to work hard to polish themselves, like diamonds.”

“Are you saying that I’m ‘some people’?” Viktor asks, with a grin.

“I’m saying that you are a genius. Yuuri isn’t.”

“I’m not so sure I’d agree with that.”

“Have you ever lost a competition?”

“Never.”

“My point, exactly.”

Viktor doesn’t know why everyone assumes that just because he’s won awards at every competition he’s ever been in, and has broken so many records, that his talent is somehow unnatural; that he had been blessed by angels, or by God Himself, with a gift for music that he was born with, instead of a skill that he earned, like everyone else.

They looked at him and only saw the accolades bestowed upon him, the many trophies on his shelf. They saw his perfect smile, his perfect hair, the designer clothing — the _idea_ of a man they called a musical genius, a once-in-a-generation artist, who disrupted the industry — shook it in such a way that they gave him a crown and called him the _Prince_ _of Pop_.  

He was Viktor Nikiforov, who never had to work a day in his life, who had music pouring out of his fingertips and poetry spinning off his tongue; who never had to learn how to dance, because his body was molded for movement. Who never knew the meaning of what it meant to struggle. What it means to endure.

They never saw him when the lights were off. When he was sitting alone before a piano, without anyone else there. How he had spent his childhood chasing after music, because it was the only language he really understood. The only life that he knew, the only thing he had left of his mother, with fingers that ached, and arms that shook, with the strain of too many hours. Trying to make alive a thing that could never be permanent. Trying to find meaning in it all.

They didn’t see him, when he stood on a stage, surrounded by twenty thousand people, feeling more alone than he ever did when all he had was just the music.

When it was the only thing that he knew.

 

 

Minako is just like everyone else, looking at him like he is more than what he really is.

But Viktor is just a man. Human, like anyone else. He’s no different than Yuuri, and he hates that even the people in Yuuri’s life, who should support him the most, don’t seem to understand that.

Yuuri is the only person who’s ever listened to something Viktor’s created and understood that there was more to it than just some kind of God-given magic. That there was something else there, beyond the music. Something Yuuri had felt, too.

It was that _something_ that brought Viktor all the way here — to Haselton, a month ago. To Minako’s bar. To the music center, where he finds Yuuri, playing Beethoven’s “Sonata Pathetique” on the grand piano in the room they reserve for local recitals.

This late at night, only Yuuri and the Nishigoris are still there. The rest of the shop is closed, all the lights turned off, except for the florescent overhead lights in the recital room, and the ones in the lobby.

They watch him play through the glass, from the register, heavy chords booming through the glass.  

“He’s always come here to practice by himself,” says Takeshi.

“It always made me think he really loved music, when we were kids,” Yuuko admits, with a nostalgic smile. “He didn’t even play with his friends.”

“Well, he was never very good at making them, to begin with,” Takeshi says. “He’s not...very good at putting himself out there.”

Viktor had witnessed how slowly it had taken for Yuuri to warm up to him. He’s skittish in a way Viktor hadn’t expected, painfully shy and easily overwhelmed. He is unlike everything Viktor had thought he would be — explosive and expressive when he is performing; quiet and reserved, when he isn’t.

Viktor watches the way Yuuri drives his passion through his arms and into his music. Watches as sweat beads on his temple, drips down his brow, as he bends his head over the keyboard. Rocks into the crescendo.

“I don’t want this to be the end for him,” says Takeshi.  

“Neither do I,” Yuuko says. “He actually hates losing.”

That look, earlier, in Yuuri’s eyes — wide and frightened, caught behind glass. Viktor understands now, what he must do. He’ll have to inspire Yuuri to win, no matter the circumstances. He just needs to give him the right reason to stand up and fight, to not back down. To believe that he can win.

“I hope you’ll bring out a side of Yuuri that we’ve never seen before, Viktor,” Yuuko says, and as Viktor watches Yuuri pound his way through the refrain, he smiles.

He thinks he knows what he has to do, to bring out a side of Yuuri he’s never shown to the world.  

The secret, most hidden part of Yuuri, that Viktor wants to put on show.

“All I’ll need to do is cast a magical spell to turn our little piglet into a prince.”  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Glossary**
> 
> \--- 
> 
> _Condenser mic_ \- Microphone usually used for recording. Has higher sensitivity for higher frequencies. Generally, all professional recording for vocals and piano uses a condenser microphone.
> 
>  _Dynamic mic_ \- Lower sensitivity to higher frequencies. Flatter range and flatter audio. Used in live performances, and not so much for recording vocals.
> 
>  _SXSW_ \- South by Southwest. The largest, most important music conference/festival in the United States. (And world.) Also has an interactive and film festival. 
> 
> \---
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, and I'm sorry for how long it took me to update! I promise I won't give up this fic, and will try to update as fast as I can, so if you subscribe, please be patient with me if you can! This chapter was very plot-heavy. I had considered if I really wanted to keep as much dialogue as the anime, and decided that it was important enough, as part of the retelling, that I wanted to stay true to it. Of course, not all chapters will be point-by-point rehashes, as I'm sure you've discovered by now! I hope even though this rehashes a ton of things, you didn't find it boring. 
> 
> Thank you so much to my amazing editor, [powerandpathos](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/powerandpathos) for trucking through this chapter. 
> 
> All of the art in this chapter was drawn by me! You can find more of my art for this fic, as well as other little notes, [over here](http://subtextually.tumblr.com/tagged/yoiencore). 
> 
> You can also interact with Viktor from the world of _Encore_ at the [Ask Pop Star Viktor](http://askpopstarviktor.tumblr.com) blog that I've made here. I will respond with art, most of the time, but if you'd like writing, you can just indicate that! Spoilers for _Encore_ are tagged as "spoiler," so make sure to set your xkit accordingly if you want to avoid spoilers.
> 
> I've also added 6 new songs to [Encore's OST! Click to hear.](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLDn2XGRgVg3zg6cU-RlRCTEDnhhgaA8LW) (Yes, Viktor's song is "Death of a Bachelor" by Panic! At the Disco. I've decided to take some liberties here... ^^; Hopefully, that's okay. Haven't 100% decided if I want his voice cast to be Brendon Urie, yet, but am considering it!) 
> 
> \---
> 
> **If you liked this fic, please leave kudos or share with your friends! Or leave a comment if you'd like to see more.**
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! You can find me on Tumblr at [subtextually.tumblr.com](http://subtextually.tumblr.com) if you'd like to chat! ^^


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited by [@powerandpathos](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/powerandpathos)
> 
> [Click to listen to Encore's OST](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLDn2XGRgVg3zg6cU-RlRCTEDnhhgaA8LW) \- 4 songs added!

Morning pours in through the east windows of the dance studio, casting the room in bright, white light.

Yuuri stands in the center of the room, bathed in sunlight, trying not to wince, as he looks at himself in the mirror, and at Viktor just beyond. There are shadows under Yuuri’s eyes, a bruised sunset purpling his skin. He had lost track of time, lost track of himself, and by the time Yuuri could breathe without music to open up his lungs, he was the only one left in the darkened shop.

It was well past two in the morning, when he finally made it home.

Viktor woke him up five hours later, with a knock on the door, and a brilliant smile on his face, something green and terrible in his hand.

“I was thinking of going to the studio to work on arrangements for you and Yurio,” Viktor said. “Because you’re still not ready to dance, I was thinking that—”

“No, I’m ready,” Yuuri insisted, his voice still thick with sleep, and Viktor paused. Frowned.

“Yuuri, we’ve talked about this,” he said, cautioning. “You still need—”

“No, Viktor.” Yuuri shook his head. “That’s what I wanted to tell you, yesterday, but Yurio showed up, and I didn’t get a chance.” I’m ready, Yuuri said, and explained to Viktor how he was only ten pounds away from his target weight. How much stronger his legs were; how effortlessly he now completed his exercises.

The uncertainty of it all, how Viktor looked at him, like he wasn’t sure if he believed him, brought Yuuri to full alertness.

Viktor’s gaze scraped over the entire length of him, quiet and assessing.

Yuuri felt it like a touch, running from his neck, down to his toes, lingering at his legs as though Viktor was trying to make out the shape of them through Yuuri’s baggy pajama bottoms. Yuuri flushed under the scrutiny, fighting the urge to take a step back from the intensity of Viktor’s gaze. Nervous, suddenly, that Viktor might find something wrong with him.

“Okay,” Viktor said after a moment. “If you’re sure.”

“I—I’m sure,” Yuuri said, relief flooding through him.  

“Then, let’s go to a dance studio, and you can show me.”

Dancing did not come easily to Yuuri.

It wasn’t like music, the way it just poured out of him, a river without a dam searching for somewhere to go.

It was carved out of him with great difficulty and awkwardness; with none of the grace Viktor possessed when Yuuri watched him flow across the stage for the first time, making his body an instrument, as much a part of the music as his voice. It was breathtaking, watching him, and Yuuri remembers the surprise that had filled him at the sight of it — Viktor’s long hair trailing behind him as he spun on stage, his body a canvas that painted art Yuuri could gape at, but couldn’t fully understand. Not in the way he understood Viktor’s music — how it spoke to him, breathed into him like it was always meant to be a part of Yuuri.

He remembers the feeling of it, the swell of surprise and delight that had filled him until he was bursting with it, watching Viktor up on that stage, his hair gleaming under the lights, _becoming_ the music, inhabiting it in a way Yuuri didn’t know was possible.

I want to do that too, he thought to himself, and shortly after, started to teach himself through online videos.

As Yuuri bends down into a stretch, feeling the burn in his hamstrings, he wonders how hard Viktor had to work, or if it came to him effortlessly, like every instrument Viktor ever picked up. If he ever looked as awkward as Yuuri did, when he first started dancing — limbs disjointed, every shake of his hips jarringly off-tempo, stuttering gracelessly like a marionette on the end of strings he couldn’t control.

It had taken Yuuri an entire year of hard work to figure out how dancing actually worked. How to become one with the music — how to let it move him, and let his body move the music in return. He danced until he couldn’t dance anymore — until his thighs burned, and his fingers shook, and every part of him ached with it. He would lie on the floor, sweaty and breathless and listening to the music droning on behind him, and he told himself that Viktor did this too. That he must have worked just as hard, because the way Viktor danced was far beyond anything Yuuri could do. And that level of technique, the way he made it look so easy, couldn’t possibly have been achieved without hard work.

One day, I’ll be able to do what he does, he told himself, right there on the floor. And then, he picked himself up and made himself go through the motions again and again until his body gave out once more.

Yuuri’s eyes drift up to Viktor in the mirror as he slides down into a deep side lunge.

Did Viktor work like Yuuri did? Did he lie in a pool of his own sweat, aching so badly he could barely move? Did he experience the exhilaration of learning a dance routine, only to then discover the crushing impossibility of performing that dance, and simultaneously singing with any kind of competence? Did he despair like Yuuri, and question his own ability to become the performer he wanted to be? Did Viktor Nikiforov ever _doubt_ himself?

Yuuri’s not sure if Viktor’s capable of a thing like doubt, or if he ever was. He always seems so certain, so sure, about everything he ever does.

Viktor looks back at Yuuri with a slightly raised, amused brow when he notices him watching him, and Yuuri flushes, heart leaping into his throat. His eyes dart away and, with burning cheeks, he finishes stretching before he gets up onto his feet and turns to face Viktor.

“Okay, I’m ready,” he says, taking off his glasses, setting them down on the floor. “You can start the music.”

Viktor nods from his position near the studio’s built-in sound system, and triggers Yuuri’s music.

Of all the songs in Yuuri’s repertoire, this particular song is the only one that had truly challenging choreography — his song from the _Grand Prix Voice Finals_.

It was the only thing that Yuuri could think of to show Viktor.

Celestino had chosen it for him as his final performance piece because he claimed it would showcase all of Yuuri’s best skills — his ability to sing, and dance, and truly demonstrate his artistry — in a way no other song could. It was supposed to be the song that would have cinched Yuuri’s first place win; the performance that would have made him a star.

But instead, it was the worst performance of Yuuri’s career.

Now, without the frills of the stage, and the lights, and dancers — without the gilt of makeup and costumery and perfectly coiffed hair, Yuuri thinks he should be able to perform for Viktor what he couldn’t for himself. This isn’t a real performance, after all. It’s just Viktor and him, alone in a studio, without anyone else to watch. Yuuri won’t have to worry about the audience, just beyond, the deafening roar of their voices, threatening to crush him to dust. He won’t have to think about the way the spotlight burned. He’ll only have to think about the music, and his body, and—

Viktor.

_Oh god._

Viktor is really going to watch him dance for the first time, and Yuuri hadn’t even had a chance to rehearse.

What if Viktor is right? What if he had wanted Yuuri to wait a little to show him this, because he wanted Yuuri to be in his best form? It’s been four months since _Grand Prix Voice_ — how could Yuuri possibly be as good as he was, back then? What if Yuuri should have at least practiced, before trying to perform the most challenging choreography he’d ever done in his life?

The first beat of his music booms through the speakers.

It’s just like before — the way Viktor looks at him. Assessing, unreadable, completely focused on watching him. His eyes burn a cold blue, and Yuuri feels the sea of his gaze washing over him, dragging him right off the cliff he’d been dangling over, fingertips grasping and uncertain, and he almost misses the first beat of his choreography. Catches himself half a beat in and quickly dives into it, heart thudding, breath caught in the base of his throat.  

It’s too late now — Yuuri has to perform the best that he can. Has to show Viktor that he can do this, that he’s ready, even if he’s not so sure if he is. He can create music with his body, the way Viktor wants. Can _become_ the music, just like Viktor.

Yuuri tries to focus on his music, to let himself flow into it, the way he knows he can. He’s done this choreography countless times; practiced it until it sedimented into his muscles. He knows these spins, this footwork, the complicated steps. Knows the way his arms should look, the sharpness of his elbows, his hands; the way he should undulate his hips. Knows all these things, and yet, all he can feel and focus on instead isn’t the music, the rhythm of it. Isn’t the way he holds himself, or how he drops into a knee slide across the floor, arms thrown back over his head as he arches his neck, before thrusting himself forward towards the ground in what should be a sensual roll.

Instead, all Yuuri can focus on is Viktor. The way his eyes burn, all the way down Yuuri’s neck. The way he _watches_ him in the mirror, fingers curled around the bottom of his chin, eyebrows slightly pinched in concentration.

Yuuri can feel something inside of him starting to unravel, something that throws his downstep off-rhythm, that turns the rolling, rocking motion of his hips into something jerky. Something prickly and hot and suffocating, throat tightening as he tries to suck in a breath, and finds it choked in his lungs. He can barely feel his legs as he spins, droplets of sweat flying off his skin, desperately trying to claw his way back up the steep slope he keeps sliding down.

All he can feel is Viktor’s eyes, boring into him, peeling back the veneer of him, seeing him for what he is. Yuuri feels vulnerable and exposed and he knows — he’s dancing terribly, this isn’t what Viktor expected. Viktor’s going to be so _disappointed_ and—

The music stops.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Viktor says, clapping his hands together.

Yuuri skitters to a halt, panting heavily as he whips his head to look at Viktor, eyes wide, panic raking its way into his throat.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, tilting his head slightly. His eyebrows knit together, and the look he gives Yuuri is long and questioning. “What was that?“ he asks, and Yuuri thinks, _Oh no._ “It’s like you’re not feeling the music at all.”

Viktor’s words cut him where he’s softest, and Yuuri almost doesn’t know what to say. This is exactly what he had feared the most. Viktor is disappointed, and probably thinks Yuuri’s just wasted his time. “I—” he chokes out. “I’m sorry, it’s been awhile since I’ve danced and—” _Please, don’t tell me I’m not good enough. Don’t tell me I can’t do this._ “Please, just let me try again.”

Maybe it’s something in his voice, or maybe it’s the way Yuuri looks — eyes wide and imploring, something dark and terrified in them — but Viktor’s expression softens considerably, and he sighs.

“Yuuri,” he says, and Yuuri tenses, every part of him bracing. “What were you thinking about, when you were dancing, just now?”

“Eh?” It’s not what Yuuri expects. He thought, surely, by the way Viktor has his arms folded across his chest, the frown on his face, that he was about to tell him that he really didn’t need to see anymore. “I— I don’t know. I guess, I was just—” Terrified that Viktor would hate it; far too conscious of the fact that he was watching. “—nervous.”

“Nervous,” Viktor repeats. He studies Yuuri for a moment, and all Yuuri can think is that he must look so foolish, so amateurish, to Viktor. To be alone in a studio with his _manager_ , nervous about dancing before him. If he’s nervous alone, when it’s just the two of them, what must he be like on a stage, in front of an entire audience?

Yuuri feels the shame of it wringing him out. Feels the burn of it, hot on his face, his neck, curling through his gut.

But then Viktor smiles, and it’s so soft, and so warm, and it feels like a mercy, and Yuuri doesn’t know how to parse it at all.

“Viktor…” Yuuri says, his voice wavering and soft. “I can take it from the top. I can do better.”

 _Can_ I? he thinks.

“It’s okay,” Viktor says, and Yuuri frowns. “It’s been awhile since you last danced, so I’m sure you’re just a little rusty.” It’s kinder than what Yuuri would have called it, himself. “Let’s try something different,” Viktor says, and Yuuri watches as he unplugs Yuuri’s phone from the sound system, and plugs his own in.

Music floods through the studio a moment later.

The music Viktor had chosen isn’t Yuuri’s, or his own. There’s something dark and sultry about it, sensual in a way that Viktor could easily pull off if he were the one dancing to it, himself. But Yuuri’s never danced to something like this, before. Viktor couldn’t possibly expect that he would even know _how._

“Viktor?” Yuuri asks, watching Viktor in the mirror, as he makes his way towards him. “Did you want me to dance to… this?”

“No,” Viktor says, and he’s suddenly a solid, warm presence against Yuuri’s back. His fingers, curling over Yuuri’s hips, blow Yuuri’s eyes wide, heart slamming up against his ribs as Yuuri stares at their reflection — at Viktor behind him, at Viktor’s eyes, which are like the burning sky over the curve of Yuuri’s shoulder. “ _We_ are going to dance to this.”

Viktor’s breath is hot and humid against Yuuri’s ear, and Yuuri feels something inside of him shake wide open. Feels a tremble, as it breaks down his spine, because he can feel Viktor’s hips, pressed against him. Viktor’s chest, flush against his back. Viktor’s hands frame the entirety of his hips, swallowing them up, and Yuuri can hardly _breathe_ , can’t even _think_ , when Viktor is holding him like this.

When every inch of Viktor’s body is pressed against his own.  

Something hot flares deep at the base of his spine, unfurling itself inside of Yuuri wildly.

“Vi-Viktor?” Yuuri’s voice trembles with uncertainty and confusion as he stands there very, very still, trying not to shake apart in Viktor’s hands.

This is something Yuuri never dared to imagine. Something he never thought possible. Something he never fully considered.

But there was a glimmer there, a spark lurking at the corners inside of himself, emerging a little more each time Viktor’s hands ghosted over his shoulders, or settled on the small of his back, or made its way into his own.

Yuuri had thought Viktor was affectionate with him because that was just who he _was_. It never occurred to him, even with what all the magazines said about them — what Yurio had accused when he arrived — that maybe, there could be something _more_.

He doesn’t know if that’s what this is, but this much he knows: Viktor would never dance with just anyone like this, to help them reconnect with the music.

He could never imagine Viktor doing this for Yurio, or for anyone else, but him.

“Yuuri.” Viktor’s voice slides in, soft and dark, and Yuuri shudders with the warmth of his voice, curling around him like smoke. “Do you trust me?”

Yuuri’s voice is a whisper. “Yes.”

“Close your eyes,” Viktor says, and after a beat of hesitation, Yuuri does.

For a moment, there is only the thudding of his heart inside of his chest, the rush of his blood just under his skin, Viktor’s hands spread over his hips, and the slow, pulsing beats surrounding them. And then, Viktor’s fingers press into Yuuri’s hips, and Yuuri feels the roll of Viktor against him, pushing his own body forward in a slow wave, rocking into the music.

“Listen to the music and the sound of my voice,” Viktor whispers. “Clear your mind, and breathe slowly.” Viktor’s voice races into Yuuri like a flood, filling up his ears, drowning out the music just beyond. “Don’t think about the movements, or about forcing yourself to dance. Focus only on the music, and how it makes you feel.”

It’s hard to focus on anything other than the sound of Viktor’s breath, his words warm in Yuuri’s ear. Hard to think about movement, when all Yuuri can think about is the feeling of Viktor’s hips pressing against him as they rock with the beat, swaying together like leaves caught by the wind.

But something about this — being in Viktor’s arms, feeling the music sliding through him, wrapping around him like Viktor’s warmth, his scent filling up Yuuri’s nose — makes Yuuri feel like he can let go. Like, maybe, he doesn’t have to hold on so much to this idea of what he thinks he’s supposed to be, of how he should perform, and fall into the music, into the feeling of it, into the rush. Into the fever dream that is Viktor.

Yuuri slowly loses time. Loses himself, little by little, with each roll of the hips. He forgets what he’s supposed to be doing here, that he’s supposed to be impressing Viktor. Forgets, for a little while, that there’s anything other than this — the feeling of Viktor against him, his hands on his hips.

He doesn’t even notice when the music changes, when his hands rise from the tense weight at his sides, to curl over the backs of Viktor’s. Doesn’t realize, when his head falls back against Viktor’s shoulder, or how he slowly starts to rock back, each time Viktor rocks forward, until they’re dancing together smoothly, bodies moving in perfect synchronicity.

They rock together like ships at sea, rising and falling with the waves, with the rhythm of the world.

Yuuri’s world recedes, reforming around the sound of Viktor’s breaths, the feeling of his hands on his hips. Around the music that surrounds them and slides between their bodies, pushing and pulling and cutting the strings attached to his limbs. Viktor moves, and Yuuri follows — back arched, fingers flowing, neck tall and soft — and when Viktor spins him, Yuuri goes readily, feels the world spinning around him with the movement, as he lets himself drop into it, right into the steady strength of Viktor’s arms.

When Yuuri opens his eyes, he finds Viktor looking at him, something dark and amazed shining in his eyes. He’s breathless, a sheen of sweat glistening on his skin, silver strands plastered against his forehead. A flush rides high on his cheeks, and there’s a smile there, curling the edges of his mouth.

Viktor pulls Yuuri back up to him, and for a moment, they look at each other in quiet awe.

And then Viktor raises a hand, and his fingers, when they stroke down Yuuri’s jaw to curl around his chin, feel like fire.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, voice thick. “I know what cover to arrange for you, now. The way you danced just now — that’s what I want to see more of.”

Yuuri stares up at Viktor, dazed, like he’s still not really sure if this is real. He feels like he’s flying, somewhere high above the earth, floating through the stratosphere. The ground is a million miles below, and something free and wild and _alive_ bursts his chest wide open, and all he can do is smile.   

Yuuri doesn’t know if he’ll be able to dance like that without Viktor there to guide him.

He didn’t know he was even capable of it.

But that feeling he had, just moments ago — the feeling that he could let go, like he does when his fingers are the only part of him dancing, across the keys of a piano — he wants more of it.

He wants to _soar_.

“I’ll do my best,” he says, and it’s a promise.  

 

*

 

I’ll be right back, Viktor tells Yuuri, moments later. Just keep working on what we discussed.

Pulling away from Yuuri was almost impossible. Viktor wanted to stay wrapped around him forever, if he could. Wanted to hold him like that, the two of them falling into the music, into each other, until the end of time, itself. Wanted to pretend like time was something he could kill, if it meant that he could have Yuuri in his arms a little longer.

But Viktor couldn’t have any of that at all. He couldn’t go on holding Yuuri, feeling the warmth of him growing, and pretend like he knew how to let go.  

The hallway outside the studio is quiet, sunlight pouring in through a window at the end of the hall.

Viktor can hear the music inside Yuuri’s studio changing, and the quiet, shifting footsteps of his dancing.

He slumps heavily against the wall, a hand pressed to his mouth, all of him burning, his heart beating like a tight drum.

He probably shouldn’t have done it, drawing Yuuri in like that. Danced with him so close. Let his hands drift over him so boldly.

It had seemed a good idea at the time — dancing with Yuuri, teaching him to let himself go. Letting him feel the music and the moment, by dancing with someone else.

He had underestimated what it would do to himself _._

Hadn’t expected what it would do to Yuuri, too, or how _beautiful_ he would look — dark lashes resting on flushed cheekbones, the swell of his mouth something soft and pink. The long, slender column of his neck, stretched taut, skin as smooth as cream. How his head would roll back and fit so perfectly against the curve of Viktor’s shoulder, tension sliding out of his body as he melted back against him; his body a pliant, warm, rolling wave of raw, unbridled sensuality that Viktor wanted to dive into. Lose himself in.

There was an ocean of possibility before him, dark and glittering in the curve of Yuuri’s smile, so beautiful it could take his breath away — and did.

It was limitless and open and Viktor thought he could come to know it, could plumb its depths and explore its canyons, get lost in its currents, let it carry him far away. He could fall into it, and fall forever, and it wouldn’t be a terrible thing because there’d be no bottom. And if Yuuri could fall with him, if they could fall _together_ —

There would be no more empty nights and lonely mornings. No more hollow spaces Viktor could never fill with the glitter, the gold of his accomplishments. No more silences that sometimes grew so large that the weight of it was unbearable, suffocating. Pressing in all around him until his music could no longer rise above it. Until it was no longer a refuge where he could hide. Until all that was left was the vastness of space around him — a feeling that emptied him out, when he walked around in it, a shadow of himself.  

There would be Yuuri, with sleep heavy in his eyes, yawning wide in the doorway, his hair a wild tangle Viktor wanted to slide his fingers through. Yuuri, warm and bright and soft in all the ways Viktor has come to adore, sunlight in his skin, dawn in his eyes, a constellation glimmering in his laughter that Viktor wanted to hold. Yuuri, full of hope and endless potential, full of dreams and wonder, and when Viktor looked at him, he heard the most beautiful songs — music he didn’t think he had left in himself.   

And when he smiled, Viktor heard _symphonies._  

 

 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, everyone! 
> 
> (And as always, thank you to [powerandpathos](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/powerandpathos) for editing!) 
> 
> This chapter is considerably shorter than my usual chapters. I originally wanted to push the plot forward faster, but this ended up happening. I felt it was important enough to have it stand on its own. I'll try my best to get another chapter out next week (earlier than usual) to make up for the shortness of this one.
> 
> Also, yay, Chris finally has appeared! (Sort of.) 
> 
> Check out [Encore's OST](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLDn2XGRgVg3zg6cU-RlRCTEDnhhgaA8LW) to get a sense of the kind of music that was playing while they were dancing! (I imagine that Halsey's song is what comes on as Yuuri kinds of loses himself in it.)
> 
> Art in chapter by me! 
> 
> **If you liked this fic, please leave kudos or share with your friends! PLEASE leave a comment if you'd like to see more.** (TBH, I thrive off comments and feedback and knowing people like reading? It helps me as a writer to know what people think of my writing and that you guys want to keep reading this fic, as it's a novel-length project.)
> 
>   
>  Thanks so much for reading! You can find me on Tumblr at [subtextually.tumblr.com](http://subtextually.tumblr.com) if you'd like to chat! ^^


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